


Me + You

by mambo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, High School AU, M/M, Modern AU, Never Been Kissed AU, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Teacher Bucky Barnes, journalist steve rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo/pseuds/mambo
Summary: High school was a waking nightmare for Steve Rogers, whose one highlight was meeting a mysterious guy at the end of his senior year. Years later, he's asked to go back to high school on a journalistic assignment. He doesn't expect a familiar face to be teaching his math class.(A Never Been Kissed-inspired AU that you do not need to know the source material for, and which aims to be less creepy than.)





	Me + You

**Author's Note:**

> Last big fic of the summer! I've been working on this since May 2016, when [biblionerd07](www.biblionerd07.tumblr.com) and I were discussing how much we liked the rom-com _Never Been Kissed_ back in the day, but how creeped out we felt by it now. So I began this quest to write _Never Been Kissed_ but in a less creepy way! This is that product.
> 
> Many thanks to [hakunahistata](www.hakunahistata.tumblr.com) for being my beta (and for being an incredible friend), and to [boxofpigeons](www.boxofpigeons.tumblr.com), my usual beta, just for being awesome. Also to [kayaczeck](www.kayaczeck.tumblr.com) whose art I commissioned and appears in this fic.
> 
> There are additional warnings in the end note. Hope you enjoy the read!

**_Ten Years Ago_ **

Steve hangs up the phone, beaming. “They’re here!” he says to Sarah Rogers, who is standing in the kitchen, washing up their plates from dinner.

“You should invite them in for pictures,” she says, smiling.

Steve shakes his head. “No, no, they’re running late. I’m just gonna meet them outside,” he says.

She nods. “Alright then.” She sets the plate down and walks over to Steve. “I am so proud of you, honey. Going to your first dance,” she says, straightening out his tuxedo jacket.

Steve hangs his head. “It’s not a big deal,” he says, but he’s smiling. He never thought he’d be going to the prom, let alone with Grant Ward, the most handsome guy at school.

“Yes it is,” Sarah says, leaning over and giving him a big kiss on the cheek. “For years you’ve gone to that school and endured all of the bad things those kids have done to you, but not only did you make it through, but you convinced these kids to like you.” She wipes away a tear. “I am just so proud of you, love.”

“Thanks ma,” Steve says, a little choked up, himself. He hears a horn honk from outside. “That must be them,” he says, perking up and blinking back his own tears. “I’ll let you know when we get there!” he says.

“Have fun!” Sarah says as Steve grabs his wallet and cellphone and heads out the door.

There’s a limo outside, and he sees Grant Ward and Ophelia Sarkissian standing up through the sunroof. “Hi!” Steve calls, nearly tripping over the laces of the new Chuck Taylors his mom bought him for the prom.

Grant laughs as Ophelia hands him something. Steve’s smile falls as Grant and Ophelia throw the eggs. Grant’s misses, but Ophelia’s hits him square on the chest. “Fag!” Grant calls as the limo pulls away.

Steve starts running in the opposite direction.

He’s crying, knowing he looks like an idiot as he huffs through the streets of his Brooklyn neighborhood. But he can’t go home, not when his rented tuxedo is ruined, not when his mother was just telling him how proud she was that he could win these kids over. That’s the worst part, knowing that she won’t let him stress over the ruined tuxedo when they don’t have enough money to pay for it and will just hug him and tell him that everything is alright when it’s not, it’s obviously not.

Steve runs until he’s too out of breath to keep going — which, with his asthma, doesn’t take that long — and ends up at a playground a few blocks from his house. He used to play here as a kid, but he hasn’t been in ages. It’s late enough that the park is deserted, a blessing for Steve, who heads to the swing set. He hops onto the swing that was always his favorite as a kid and allows himself to cry, to really cry.

“Get it together,” he mutters to himself after a minute or two. “You’re better than this.”

Which he is, he knows he is. In his eighteen years of life he’s gone through more shit than those assholes will probably ever have to deal with, and he’s survived. A few eggs and his peer’s jeers shouldn’t be enough to knock him down when he’s been so strong up until now.

So why can’t he stop crying?

Steve buries his head in his hands, miserable from embarrassment and shame. He squeezes his eyes shut and wishes that he could just disappear.

So it’s a surprise when the dog attacks him with kisses.

“Ughhh,” Steve says, dignified, as the forty pound ball of white fluff tries to jump up onto his lap, whining because it can’t make it up to his face for kisses. Steve nearly falls off the swing and can just barely keep his balance.

“Winter!” he hears a male voice call from the distance. The dog — Winter, he assumes — straightens up for a moment to pay attention, pausing his attempt to get himself onto Steve’s lap, and barks once. The man calls out. “Winter, stay! Wherever you are girl, just stay!”

“She’s by the swing set,” Steve calls, resting a hand in Winter’s fluff, hoping it will keep her still until whoever is calling her can get over there.

“Thanks!” the guy calls. There’s a pause as Steve gives Winter a few gentle pats on the side of her neck. She seems a bit calmer now, happy to be petted, and apparently getting the picture that she should stay still. Then the guy calls out, “If you’re trying to kidnap her, know that I could beat the crap outta you.”

“Duly noted,” Steve yells back just as Winter’s owner appears by the slide, slightly out of breath. Winter tears herself away from Steve and bounds over to her owner, butt wiggling with glee as she barks at him.

“You’re in deep trouble,” he tells Winter, his stern voice at odds with the smile he’s trying to hold back. He looks up at Steve, starts talking towards the swing set, Winter’s leash in hand. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he says. “She can be a handful.” He looks down at Winter, expression unmistakably fond. He seems glad that he was able to find her.

“No problem,” Steve says, hoping that the guy, even though he’s close enough, won’t see his red nose, watery eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

Except Steve can see the guy — who looks to be about his age and unfairly attractive with blue eyes and bulging muscles — looking him over. “You allergic to dogs?” he asks. Steve shakes his head — dog fur is one of the few things Steve isn’t allergic to, though he’s never had one before. “You wanna hang with Winter for a bit? She’s a little energetic, but dogs can be very therapeutic.”

Steve bristles. “You think I need therapy?” he asks. “You just met me.”

The guy just chuckles. “Never said that — I think I’d need to actually know you for at least a half an hour before I decide that. Though, honestly? I think most people could use someone to talk to. Therapy is pretty helpful.” Steve can’t help but smile a little. He sort of agrees with the guy. “Just wanted to know if you wanted some puppy love because most people do. If not, I can fuck off.”

Steve hesitates for a moment, then asks, “She’s a puppy?”

“Yeah.” He takes a few steps towards the swing set, and Winter takes it as an invitation to run back up to Steve. She jumps up, her front paws on Steve’s lap. Steve lets her sniff his hand a little before he strokes the soft fur on her neck. “She’s nine months old,” the guy says as he takes the swing next to Steve, still holding Winter’s leash. “Parents got her just in time for me to do all the hard training work before I head to school.”

Steve lets Winter lick his hand a little. “Where do you go?” Steve asks.

“Just graduated from Shield High a few days ago.” Steve glances over at him again — he always assumed people who went to Shield were private school jerks, but this guy doesn’t seem too bad. “I leave for university next week. I’m playing football there and we’ve got training for most of the summer, which is kind of a drag.”

“Wow,” Steve says. “Is the team any good?” Steve doesn’t really follow sports other than baseball — which he follows religiously — but he remembers his mom’s dismay when her alma mater would get knocked out of the Division II bracket each year.

“Second place,” he says, grinning, excited and proud. “I mean, who knows if I’ll even get on the field — they have a lotta great guys and I’m definitely second string, but it’s pretty exciting to be part of something like that.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, sure beats being on the debate team.”

“You do debate?” the guy asks, all genuine and interested, like he actually cares about Steve’s extracurricular activities.

Steve nods, feeling suddenly shy. “I am opinionated,” he says, focusing on scrubbing his hand through Winter’s fur.

“I can believe that.” The guy says it with a smile, not like he’s judging Steve, or making fun of him. Typically, Steve would get a little ruffled by a comment like that and would demand to know what the guy meant by it, but there’s something about this guy’s demeanor that’s just kind of putting Steve at ease. He’s really cute, and Steve just kind of enjoys looking at him until Winter starts sniffing at Steve’s lap, whining for Steve’s attention.

Steve smiles and goes back to petting Winter. He and the guy chat for a while about school and college. Steve’s going to NYU on a full scholarship and wrote his essay about how he does art despite being red-green color-blind, which he’s damn proud of, and he’s happy to talk about the art program and what he wants to do there. For a jock, the guy has some great questions and a good sense of humor, and Steve finds himself laughing and smiling and actually enjoying the night.

Even though he felt like he wanted to disappear just a little while ago.

“Is that egg?” the guy asks out of the blue. Steve looks up. “On your tuxedo?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, voice cracking.

“Shit’s hard to get out,” he says. Steve looks down. “But my godfather runs a dry cleaners on Prospect Avenue and he can get just about anything out. If you can take it over there I’ll let him know and he’ll do it for free.”

“You’re joking,” Steve says.

“Yeah, well, he owes me a favor for all the shifts I picked up last month when one of his employees quit outta the blue.”

Steve looks down at the drying stain. “That’s too nice,” he says.

The guy shakes his head. “Nah, there aren’t a lot of ways to cash in dry cleaning favors.”

Steve laughs. “Still,” he says.

“If you wanna talk about what happened, I can listen. Can’t promise I’ll have anything intelligent to say about it, but I can listen.”

Steve doesn’t know why he trusts this guy to hear the story, but he does. “Last week the most popular, handsome guy in our class asked me to the prom,” he says, focusing his gaze on Winter. “And after years of getting shoved into lockers and made fun of because how I look and what I do with my time and my sexuality, I thought he finally realized how wrong it was, and that he and his friends were trying to make it up to me.” He sighs. “They egged me from the limo. It wasn’t even like _Carrie_. I didn’t even make it to the prom.”

“Shit,” the guy says.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “That’s why I’m here. I couldn’t go home and face my ma. She was so excited that I was going to the prom. I’d skipped out on every other dance during high school.”

“You were still gonna go to the prom. Not your fault that the assholes didn’t give you the ride they promised you.”

Steve snorts out a laugh. “That’s one way of looking at it,” he admits.

“Honestly, you could still probably go to the prom. You make that egg look good.”

Steve laughs a little more, but shakes his head. “I’m covered in dog fur, too,” he says.

“Winter would happily be your date,” he says.

Steve looks down at Winter. “I am not that into dogs, but if I were, you’d be at the top of the list,” he says.

Winter licks his face.

The guy laughs.

“Thanks,” Steve says, looking over at the guy. “You and Winter kinda saved this night.”

He shakes his head. “The fact that you can bounce back and hang out with a stranger after the crap night you’ve had is pretty astounding. I’m not gonna tell you that Winter isn’t the best thing to cure a bad day, because she is, but you let yourself be cheered up, if that makes any sense at all.”

“It does,” Steve says.

“Thanks for telling me,” the guy says.

“Thanks for listening,” Steve says.

The guy smiles, and Steve realizes that he doesn’t know the guy’s name. He’s about to ask when the guy’s cell phone starts ringing. “Shit,” the guy mutters, standing up from the swing and pulling it from his pocket. Surprised from the movement, Winter slips off of Steve and goes to sit at the feet of the guy. “Hey,” he says into the phone. “Yeah, we ran into a friend.” He pauses. “Okay, alright, yeah, I’ll be back soon.” He hangs up the phone and slips it into his back pocket. “That was my mom and I gotta go, but uh…” He pauses, bites down on his bottom lip. “This was fun, and remember about my godfather’s place, okay? I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Thanks,” he adds.

“I’ll see you around,” the guy says with a grin before jogging away from Steve, Winter close at his heels.

Steve never learns his name.

  


_**Today** _

“For the record,” Steve says, “I think this is a terrible idea.”

“But will you do it?” Natasha asks.

Steve sighs, then nods. “Fine,” he says, “but you’re footing all of my bills. And I’m going to shop solely at Trader Joe’s for the entirety of the time.”

Natasha nods. “Fair,” she says.

Steve groans, flopping back into his conference room chair. “I can’t believe you’re forcing me to go back to high school. Of all the things you could force me to do, _high school_.”

“Isn’t digging deep and discovering the secrets of the world why you became a journalist?” Carol asks, half-mocking.

“Sure is,” Steve says. “Didn’t think that it’d require me to take pre-algebra again, though.”

“Well, then I’ve got some good news for you,” Natasha says from her seat next to Steve. She pushes her laptop over to him so that Steve can see what’s on the screen. “I just signed you up for Algebra II.”

Steve flops over, rests his forehead on the conference room table, and wonders what his life would have been like if had he decided to go to library school like his mom wanted him to.

— —

Natasha finds him at his desk after their pitch meeting. “Hey,” she says.

“Hi,” Steve says, booting up his computer and not meeting her eyes. He’s angry and not good at hiding it, but he doesn’t actively want to piss her off. It’s not her fault that he is the shortest and youngest-looking member of the _Delilah_ staff. It’s just her fault for coming up with the undercover high schooler idea at all.

“I know you’re mad at me,” she says. Steve sighs. “But I want to tell you why I’m putting you up to this.”

Steve looks up at her, finally. She’s standing in the entryway of his cubicle, a hand on her hip. They’ve been friends since Steve joined the _Delilah_ staff three years ago, and he likes her a lot. She’s his favorite member of the editorial team, and she does tend to come up with the most interesting pitches. Usually, he’s happy when he’s assigned to one of Natasha’s pitches. Just not today.

Steve started reading  _Delilah_ in college. It's a news, humor, and think piece site that Steve loves to read. Most of the time, it lifts people up, gives people something to think about, and generates useful discussion. Steve's coworkers are some of the best in the business, and he likes working with them. Some, like Natasha, are his good friends, and they bring so much to the table. Steve loves reading their articles and listening to their ideas.

It's just that Steve doesn't always love what he does.

He's their resident gossip columnist, coming up with witty things to say about the most recent celebrity scandal as he recaps them and posts a link to a gossip rag along with it. His articles are popular, and people say he's got a knack for writing the stuff, but he doesn't always feel good about making a joke out of someone's divorce or recent career setback. He's jealous of his coworkers, and the work that they do. But while he'd like to do it, too, he's not so sure that it's what he's good at.

“Why’d you do it?” Steve asks. She doesn’t know a lot about his high school experience, but she should’ve known enough to know that Steve wouldn’t be raring to go back.

“This is a secret, but Carol’s going to be leaving in a month or so.”

“Really?” Steve asks. Carol is one of the junior editors, and a great one.

“Yeah, she’s going to be doing something with Condé Nast. It’s a good gig.”

“That’s good for her,” Steve says. He doesn’t know Carol that well, but wishes her the best.

There’s a beat.

“You get it?” Natasha asks.

“Get what?” Steve asks. “That she’s leaving? Natasha, I—“

Natasha sighs. “So there’s a reason I’m assigning you to a more serious, more journalistic piece. If you can find a good angle and get some attention for this, I think you have a real shot at taking Carol’s place.”

“As an editor?” Steve asks.

She nods. “I know that you’re sick of doing celebrity gossip. Getting editor would let you do some more serious stuff, and it comes with a nice raise.” She pauses. “You’re good at what you do,” she says. “It’s probably time we let you do more.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, knowing how rare a compliment from Natasha is. “That means a lot.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she says before walking away.

He laughs, but does let the idea sink in. Sure, this whole career path wasn’t what he had anticipated after getting his degree in fine arts, but a title change doesn’t sound all that bad. In fact, he can almost convince himself that going back to high school will be worth it, if Natasha can get him this promotion.

— —

“The thing is,” Steve tells Sam that night over Long Island Iced Teas, “I didn’t have the greatest time in high school.”

“Man, I know,” Sam says. “It’s like you forgot that we met in our first-year creative writing seminar. All of your damn poems were either about your high school bullies or that imaginary prom guy, but they were all really sad and super uncomfortable to listen to.”

“Not imaginary!” Steve says, maybe a bit too loudly. A few people sitting at a nearby table turn to look at their booth. The oldest amongst the group glares. Steve rolls his eyes at him, but says “He was real” at a more reasonable volume.

Sam laughs. “Sure he was. Say, maybe he’ll be at this high school, too! You can write your _Delilah_ article about the magical high school football player who goes around saving senior proms for nerds.”

Steve huffs, settles back into his side of the booth. “Maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll write my article about how my high school guidance counselor took me out for drinks the night before school started.”

“I shouldn’t have agreed to this,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “Marvel High School deserves better than this.”

Steve takes a long sip of his drink. “Same,” he says. “Same.”

But it’s a funny idea. He’s long since given up any hope of finding his friend from prom night — and he tried a few times in the weeks after prom and graduation — but never managed to get a name. Even after taking the tuxedo to his godfather’s place, he hadn’t been able to. Meeting on that night was fate, though, and Steve just considers himself lucky that it happened at all.

Still, it would be nice to see the guy again, just to thank him, and maybe take him out for a drink.

— —

“Can’t believe she really signed me up for Algebra II,” Steve mutters as he looks over his finalized schedule.

“Aw, buck up, kiddo,” Ms. Parker says. “Your mom just believes you can do it. If you have trouble, my nephew is in that class, and I’m sure he’d be happy to help you out if you feel like you need some catching up.”

Trying not to snicker at the thought of Natasha being his mother, Steve nods and thanks Ms. Parker for her help, because he has manners, even if he is trying to be a high school student.

She smiles back at him. “Now, fifth period started just a few minutes ago. I let Mr. B know that you’ll be just a few minutes late, but I’m giving you a hall pass just in case someone stops you along the way. Good luck on your first day, Steve!”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Steve says, taking the hall pass from her.

“Oh please don’t call me ma’am,” she says with a laugh, pushing her long brown hair behind her ears.

“Sorry,” Steve says, going a little red.

“You just get to class,” she says.

Steve doesn’t need to be told again. He grips his hall pass and heads out of the administrative office where Ms. Parker works. With the yellow slip of paper, his new Jansport backpack, and the sound of his sneakers squeaking against the tile floor, Steve almost feels like he’s a real high schooler again. It’s surreal. The accomplishments and confidence he’s built up in college and as a young professional fade away, leaving him vulnerable amongst the student council campaign posters and after school club fliers. The stream of insecurities Steve managed to dam up within himself these past few years breaks, to the point where his heart pounds as he opens the door to his Algebra II classroom.

“Exactly. Distribute the negative four. Can anyone tell me what the equation—“

“Mr. B,” someone in the class interrupts.

Mr. B doesn’t bother turning around, just continues to write the equation down. “Yes Harry, you can use the restroom,” he says as he finishes up what he’s writing and sets his chalk down.

The class chuckles as Harry rolls his eyes. Steve assumes it’s some kind of class-wide inside joke, though Harry doesn’t seem that upset about it. “You’re making a terrible impression on the new kid, Mr. B,” Harry says.

Mr. B turns from the chalkboard to the front of the classroom, looking at Harry quizzically. Harry gestures to where Steve stands, and then finally, Mr. B looks over to where Steve stands, gripping his hall pass and praying that nothing goes terribly wrong.

It goes terribly wrong.

“Oh jeez,” Mr. B says, “Sorry about…” He trails off, furrowing his eyebrows. He looks Steve up and down, quiet for a moment before regaining his composure and clearing his throat. “That,” he says, finally breaking the tension of that long moment. “Sorry about that, mister…” he trails off, smiling at Steve, and sending Steve reeling.

Because Mr. B? He’s. That. Guy.

He’s the guy from the park, standing in front of Steve nearly ten years after Steve’s ill-fated prom night.

And they recognized one another immediately, even after ten years had passed.

Neither looks the same as they did then. Steve spent the first few years of young adulthood decorating his body — he has several piercings on either ear, one on his left eyebrow, and a tiny scar on his nose from where he let that piercing grow closed. He has several tattoos — one on his collarbone that reads ‘on va voir’ in cursive script, and a small pair of wings behind either ear, mostly covered by his hair. He traded in the gold wire-framed glasses he wore in high school for thick plastic frames, and he’s dressed in skinny jeans, black, worn Converse and a green flannel, worn open over a white t-shirt. He’s by no means cool, but he doesn’t have the same kind of pathetic vibe that he did as a high schooler. He’s not the same person. He’s stronger now, and he knows it.

Mr. B, though. Mr. B looks better than ever. He wears well-fitting khaki pants with a blue and tan button-down. It would look dorky on most people — especially with his pair of sensible brown loafers — but Mr. B makes it look teacher couture. The shirt clings to his muscular chest and shoulders, tapering down to where it tucks into his pants. His hair is styled up, a little bouncy, and his eyes seem bright and blue as he takes Steve in. There’s just the tiniest bit of five o’clock shadow on his face, even though it’s barely eleven.

[Art by kayaczeck](kayaczeck.tumblr.com)

Then all at once Mr. B clears his throat and smiles, normal like Steve’s world didn’t just shift on its axis. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he says. “Sometimes I get so excited about imaginary numbers that I forget about reality.” It’s half-joking, half-serious in that nerdy teacher kind of way that the best teachers master. A kid in the back groans exaggeratedly and Mr. B turns to the class, laughter threatening to break through his fake, stern face. “Better than your imaginary A, Peter,” he says, sending the class into laughter. Even Peter seems to be laughing, which sets Steve’s mind at ease. Mr. B doesn’t seem to be bullying his students. They seem to like him, and he knows where to draw the line. That’s good. Steve’s had teachers who were just as bad as the worst bullies in their class.

Though, given his track record, Steve would have never guessed Mr. B would be a bully.

“You must be Steve?” Mr. B asks, and Steve nods, desperately waiting for Mr. B to reveal his full name. “Great to meet you. I’m Mr. Barnes — though most students call me Mr. B — and this is Algebra II.” He pauses, thoughtful, looking at Steve with an expression that Steve can’t quite decipher. Not a bad look — just thoughtful. It makes Steve feel very exposed. “Anyhow, you can introduce yourself to the class if you’d like; though, I won’t force you. There’s an open desk by Gwen, if you wanna take a seat.” Steve nods, then scurries over to the desk, grateful that he doesn’t have to stand in front of the class and list five facts about himself like so many teachers will expect him to do. The seat Mr. Barnes gestured to is in the front row, and Steve feels absurdly grateful for the unobstructed view of Mr. Barnes. Steve doesn’t want to look away. He’s afraid that if he does, Mr. Barnes will disappear, and this will all be in his head like Sam thinks it is.

He half expects Mr. Barnes to make fun of him for the way he avoided making his introduction, but instead he just smiles. “Since we’re halfway through class today, we’ll have everyone do a short intro tomorrow,” he says. “Gives everyone time to prepare something very impressive to share with the class.”

“What’re you gonna share, Mr. Barnes?” asks a girl in the second row.

“The gift of knowledge, obviously,” Mr. Barnes says with a grin, looking at Steve.

Half the class groans.

Steve feels like he’s being punched in the stomach, but not in a terrible way. Just a very, very weird-feeling way. He doesn’t want it to stop.

A kid in the back says over the crowd, “Hey, Mr. B?”

Mr. Barnes hesitates a moment, eyes still on Steve. It’s a searching look, and for a moment he almost seems tense. But almost as soon as it starts, it’s over, and Mr. Barnes pulls his gaze away from Steve and over to whoever called for his attention. “Yes?” he asks.

“Since we’re already off-topic, can we see those photos of Winter from your camping trip?” she asks.

Winter. Wow. Any doubt Steve still had was banished in an instant. He can’t help but smile, thinking of overeager, friendly Winter, and how wonderful she was on such a shitty, shitty night. His would-be prom date, Winter.

Mr. Barnes chuckles, shaking his head. “C’mon Jean. We’ve got a new student here! Shouldn’t we wait at least a week to show him how little we actually get done in this class?”

There’s a chorus of “come on”s and “please”s from the class, which makes Mr. Barnes laugh harder. “Fine fine!” he relents, then adds, “Three pictures, and then we’re back to work, okay?”

Steve hears a girl behind him whisper, “It’s never just three. He’s obsessed with that dog.”

Mr. Barnes heads over to his desk in the front corner of the room, glancing at Steve on his way there with a little half-smile. “Winter is my dog,” he says, almost sheepishly as he heads to his desk.

“She’s adorable,” the girl next to Steve says. She’s blonde, pretty, and preppy. Steve is ready to ignore her, but after a long moment he realizes that she’s looking at him with her big Bambi eyes, like she’s actually speaking to him and waiting for his response.

“Oh,” he says, “dogs can be adorable.”

No one has ever accused Steve of being smooth.

“On the day before breaks Mr. Barnes will bring her in. Those days are the absolute greatest. She is so sweet.”

Thankfully, Steve is saved from further smalltalk about a dog he met ten years ago by the front screen going live. Steve looks up at the screen, half-expecting an overhead projection, but instead getting a projection from the MacBook on Mr. Barnes’ desk. There’s a photo of Mr. Barnes wearing a black and red flannel with jeans and a tan vest. He’s kneeling by Winter’s side, a small waterfall and wooded area behind them. The photo is like something out of an L.L. Bean catalogue: Mr. Barnes grinning like he’s born for the camera, Winter’s tongue lolling, fur shiny and gleaming white. A few of Steve’s classmates hum appreciatively. Next to him, Gwen kind of sighs, looking at the picture with a dreamy expression.

“We camped near this place. Winter liked swimming around in the river. Actually, I think I…” he trails off, clicking a few times through the slides. A series of photos flash across the screen: lush green landscapes, a shot of the sky through the trees, a close-up of a man with dark eyes and a strong, stubbled jaw. The man shows up a few times, laying on the grass with Winter next to him, poking at a fire with a stick, walking ahead of Mr. Barnes on a wooded trail.

Steve doesn’t know why his heart sinks the way it does.

“Ah, here we go,” Mr. Barnes says, finally stopping at a picture of Winter on the shore of a river, poised to jump in. “We were lucky that Brock had the camera ready for this,” he says, scrolling through the next few photos, which show Winter jumping, hovering in midair, then splashing down into the water. She looks like an entirely different dog after she’s been in the water, her long hair sagging and plastered to her body. She looks adorable, especially in the next few photos, where she runs out of the water, runs up to Mr. Barnes — mid-laugh and shining — and jumps onto him. Steve can almost hear the laughter, feel the sun, enjoy the weekend. Whatever he is, Brock seems like he’s a talented photographer. And Steve kind of hates him for it.

“Anyhow, that’s that,” Mr. Barnes says. The class groans. “C’mon, all. Nothing’s as fun as math!” He’s grinning, knowing his own joke and how unfunny it is. Steve is willing to bet that even he doesn’t believe that nothing is as fun as math.

“Wait!” someone says in the back. “Steve’s new, right? You gotta show him the puppy pictures!” There’s a general murmur of assent from across the room. Mr. Barnes looks just a little irked at the suggestion, shaking his head with something between frustration and fondness.

It probably would be a bad move to tell the class not to worry — he met Winter when she was a puppy.

“Three pictures,” Mr. Barnes says, “Then for every other you ask me to show I’m adding another problem onto tonight’s assignment.” Someone groans. “Hey, gotta make up for this wasted class time somehow!” He pauses, chuckles to himself.

“He’s the greatest, isn’t he?” Gwen asks. “There’s no better teacher at this school.”

Steve nods, watching Mr. Barnes put a photo of Winter as a puppy up onto the screen.

“He is, he really is.”

— —

The bell rings in the middle of Mr. Barnes demonstrating an equation. He groans. “Foiled!” He says, then snorts. “Get it? Foiled? Anyhow, since we didn’t get to it in class, don’t do the last five questions on tonight’s problem set — don’t complain, and if you do, blame the new guy for your extra twenty minutes of free time tonight,” he says as the class packs up and files out. Mr. Barnes makes his way back to his desk, pausing to give one student a fist bump and to ask another if she’s doing anything fun for her birthday the next day, and if it would be okay to mention it to the class.

Steve hesitates, packing up slowly.

“Hey Steve,” Gwen says.

“Oh, uh, yeah?” Steve asks, surprised, math book in hand.

“You have plans for lunch? I usually sit with Peter, Harry and Mary Jane, along with a few other folks on the west side of the cafeteria, if you’d like to join us today.”

Okay, where’s the pig’s blood? Steve thinks to himself. Gwen seems way too put together to want to sit with Steve Rogers at lunch.

But she’s looking at him, holding a few notebooks to her chest, like she expects him to give her an actual answer. She actually looks a little hopeful, like she genuinely wants Steve to sit with them, and that this isn’t just a courtesy she does for every new student. It’s actually pretty nice to see.

“That’s so nice Gwen, thanks, but I’m actually having lunch with Sa—“ He clears his throat. “Mr. Wilson. I’m having lunch with Mr. Wilson.”

“The guidance counselor?” Gwen asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says, then seeing her confused look, adds, “we’re going to talk about my schedule.”

She nods. “Well, if you finish early, come find us! And if not today, consider this an open invitation to join us any time. Okay?”

“Sure,” Steve says.

“I gotta run — I’ll see you later, Steve!” she says as she grabs her book bag off the floor and practically hops out of the classroom. She’s so pure and adorable — Steve wonders if any high schooler has ever looked so put-together before. It’s kind of amazing.

“You’re meeting with Mr. Wilson?” Mr. Barnes asks, startling Steve out of his stupor. He turns to Mr. Barnes, who is smiling at him from behind his desk. “Sorry to eavesdrop — well, not really. Part of being a teacher is constant vigilance. We have an entire seminar on eavesdropping in teacher school.” Steve smiles. Mr. Barnes seems like such a dork with his goofy smile with a hundred bad jokes. “Anyhow, you need help getting to his office?”

“No, I was there this morning,” Steve says. Actually, he had been there once before, back when they lived with each other. Sam had forgotten his lunch and Steve brought it by. At the time, he hadn’t realized the next time he’d be going there would be as a student.

“Sounds good. This school has had so many add-ons that it seems like a maze sometimes. I swear that it took me my entire first semester to figure out where the faculty bathroom is. Even now I need someone else to lead me to the teacher’s lounge.”

Steve can’t help it — he laughs.

“Wow, laughing at my bad jokes. There’s no need to be a brown-noser quite yet. Everyone else just rolls their eyes at me.”

It’s so funny how at ease Steve feels with Mr. Barnes. Mr. Barnes smiles so easily, so genuinely, and it makes Steve want to melt. Steve always wondered what kind of life the guy from prom night had. Somehow this — Mr. Barnes at the front of a classroom, cracking jokes, and trying to make the new kid feel okay — makes complete sense. Something clicks into place for Steve that he hadn’t realized had been misaligned.

Mr. Barnes is real, he’s here, and he’s okay.

“Say,” Mr. Barnes says, smile fading just a little. “This is gonna sound a little nutty, but are you from Flatbush?”

Steve nods. “I grew up around there,” Steve says, not realizing his mistake until Mr. Barnes perks up.

“So, this is weird, and I know that this is weird, but please hear me out. Do you have an older brother?” Steve shakes his head. “A cousin?”

“I don’t have much family,” Steve says.

Mr. Barnes exhales, then smiles. “It’s just that you look… incredibly similar to this guy I used to know and lost touch with. I wondered whether you were related, is why I’m asking.”

“Sorry,” Steve says. “Maybe you lost touch because they were kidnapped by a secret government agency and I’m their clone.”

Mr. Barnes barks out a sharp laugh. “Jeez,” he says. “Wow. Can’t say I expected _that_ response.”

Steve shrugs. “I’m full of surprises.” He didn’t mean to make it sound so flirtatious; he clears his throat in embarrassment, hoping that Mr. Barnes didn’t take it that way. Flirting with your math teacher — even unsuccessfully — is probably not typical new student on his first day of school behavior. Steve tries to change the subject, hoping Mr. Barnes doesn’t dwell on the last one. “Even math answers. I can come up with some pretty surprising math answers.”

“What do you mean by that?” Mr. Barnes asks.

“I’m pretty terrible at math,” Steve admits. He doubts the statement could really hurt him in any way — it’s not like he’ll be around long enough to get a report card — so he reveals it.

Mr. Barnes smiles. It looks kind. “Here’s the thing: nobody’s born as a great mathematician. Now, there are a few great minds in every generation that understand these concepts quickly, but there’s a learning curve for most everybody else. Math is a mix of language and music. You have to learn to read it, and then apply it, and that always takes time and practice just like learning a language or a new instrument does. Yet, people won’t practice math in the same way that they practice languages or instruments because they feel like the solutions should just come naturally, and they give up if they don’t. So no one is terrible at math — you just need to be willing to practice, and it just takes some people more practice than others. It’s not always fair that way, but anyone who is willing to be patient and persistent can become a great mathematician with time.”

If Steve had any doubts left about Mr. Barnes being the guy from the park (which, frankly, he didn’t) that little speech would have dismissed them. It makes sense that Mr. Barnes would become the most inspiring teacher Steve’s ever had within just one class. Kindness and knowing what to say to people just seems like a part of the guy’s DNA. It’s almost unfair, the ease he has with other people.

But in another way, it’s almost disappointing. If Mr. Barnes acts this way with everyone, Steve isn’t that special. It shouldn’t surprise him the way it does, but the selfish side of Steve had always assumed that he had been special to Mr. Barnes. The reality is, however, that Mr. Barnes would do it for anyone.

“Steve?” Mr. Barnes asks and Steve jolts out of his thoughts. “You okay there?”

Steve nods, cheeks going red. “Sorry,” he says.

“Long day?” Mr. Barnes asks, all sympathy and sappy sweet smiles. Steve nods, because even though he knows that what goes on here doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of his life and is only temporary, it _has_ been a long day.

Also, math is still unreasonably hard, and he can’t believe that his coworkers are forcing him to relive this nightmare. No matter how inspiring Mr. Barnes’ speeches are, he’s not going to practice equations in his free time.

“Things will get easier with time,” Mr. Barnes promises. “And I wasn’t joking — you can come to me with anything you need, math or otherwise. Starting at a new school is confusing, and I’m happy to answer any questions you think are dumb or help you solve problems you may be having. I know I’m not as cool as Mr. Wilson, but I don’t have to write nearly as many college recommendation letters as he does, so I’ve got some time on my hands.”

Steve cracks a smile. Sam would probably love to hear one of his coworkers call him cool — Steve will be sure to tell him at their lunch.

(Which Steve should’ve left for five minutes ago, but he doesn’t want to stop talking to Mr. Barnes. Sam will probably understand; though, he’ll probably never stop giving Steve shit for it.)

“And as far as math goes,” Mr. Barnes continues, “you can always e-mail me with questions on an assignment. I’m pretty good about responding as long as it’s not in the middle of the night. I’m also happy to meet with you most days before or after school, just not Wednesday afternoons because I run club meetings then. But most other days, just as long as you give me a day or two’s notice. I also know some students who’d be happy to tutor you if you’d like — Peter Parker is a great kid and is always looking for more students to tutor. I can pass on his info if you feel like you need it.” He smiles. “Feels like I’ve been talking way too much, and you’ve got better things to do than stand there and listen.”

Steve shakes his head. “I really appreciate it, Mr. Barnes,” he says, and wow. It feels nice to say his name out loud, even if it’s just a last name.

“It’s not a problem. Hope the rest of your day goes smoothly, Steve. Don’t hesitate to get in touch if something happens, alright?”

“I promise,” Steve says.

Mr. Barnes smiles. “Okay then, tell Mr. Wilson I say hello.”

“Will do!”

When Steve leaves the classroom he realizes that this is Mr. Barnes’ lunch hour, too, and he spent a chunk of it reassuring Steve.

He’s a good guy.

— —

“Slow down,” Sam says.

“Mr. Barnes is the guy,” Steve repeats, pacing his way around Sam’s small office.

“Which guy?”

“Prom guy.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “You do realize that I was joking last night, right? If you think you’re gonna fool me into thinking that Bucky Barnes was your prom night savior, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Bucky.

That’s all Steve can think about — his name is Bucky Barnes, and he’s a math teacher.

“Steve? You’re spacing out,” Sam says.

Steve nods, flopping onto one of Sam’s armchairs. “He knew me,” Steve says, “and I knew him.”

“You’re… not joking,” Sam says. Steve shoots him a look. “Hey man, you gotta admit that it sounds completely out there, especially after we were just talking about it.”

“It does.” Steve frowns.

“Makes sense, though. Barnes is a genuinely good guy — though, he’s got a bad case of dad humor. The guy is worse than all of my uncles combined and that’s saying something. But he _would_ be the kind of guy who’d seek out a sad nerd on prom night and reaffirm his will to live.” Sam smiles. “You got the best luck in the world, Steve.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’ve got a chance to get to know this guy. You’ve waited years and years, and now he’s standing in front of you. Ditch school and ask him to go get drinks tonight. He’d probably say yes.”

Steve looks at Sam. Sam looks at Steve.

“Don’t say it,” Sam starts. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“I can’t just quit!” Steve says.

Sam groans. “I told you not to say it.”

“I worked hard to get this position. If I tell Mr. Barnes the truth, my cover will be blown and I’ll probably get fired from _Delilah_.” He could also forget about the promotion Natasha talked to him about.

For a moment Sam looks like he’s gonna argue, but he just ends up shaking his head. “Man, I know you like your job well enough, and I’m proud of you for getting it and all, you know I am. But when was the last time you picked up a paintbrush?” Steve tenses, looks away. “Maybe all this is a sign. Maybe the universe is trying to tell you to screw this assignment and maybe screw Bucky Barnes, too.”

“He’s got a boyfriend,” Steve says. It’s a weak defense, and he’s not even sure that the guy in Mr. Barnes’ camping photos is his boyfriend, even if it seems like he is.

“I’d dump that asshole for you,” Sam says, thoughtful.

“I’m going to keep going. I’ll figure out a way to have it all,” Steve says, sounding, perhaps, a little more confident than he feels. But if he’s learned one thing living in New York all his life, it’s that you’ve gotta fake it ’till you make it.

Sam laughs. “Whatever you’ve gotta do” he says. He pulls the plastic container he has his lunch in out of his desk drawer. “Now, can I eat my salad and complain about my masters program now? Because unlike the students in this room, some of us are adults with responsibilities and too much reading.”

Steve pauses. “You’re a masters student, though.”

Sam groans and Steve laughs, and he finally feels a little more at ease.

— —

That is until he walks into his ninth period art class. “You must be Steve,” says Ms. Carter. She’s beautiful, with a British accent, a pleated blouse and pressed skirt. “Welcome to Painting II. I was incredibly impressed with your portfolio — I’m excited to have you in my class.”

Steve blushes, glances down. “Thanks,” he mutters. He didn’t realize that he had sent in a portfolio in the first place. Natasha is the only one from work who knows his art. She must have sent it in, probably got in touch with Sam about it. The traitors.

“We’ve got an easel set up for you over there,” Ms. Carter says, directing him to the left side of the room. The place smells like fresh oil paints and clean paper.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed sitting behind an easel until he’s actually behind one, paintbrush in hand. It feels natural in a way that sitting behind a keyboard has never been.

— —

When Steve gets home after school — which is a weird thing to have to say to himself — he boots up his laptop. When he gets the Internet open, he wastes no time in typing ‘Bucky Barnes’ into the search bar.

The first thing that pops up is a news article from about a year after the two of them first met: ‘Promising Hydra University recruit transfers schools following hazing incident’.

Steve’s stomach drops.

Part of Steve feels like he shouldn’t click on the article, that it’s invasive, and that he’s not going to want to read whatever terrible things that the article has to say, but he can’t help himself. He clicks the article.

 

> _Coxsackie, NY — James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes quietly announced his decision to transfer from Hydra University to Triskelion College on Wednesday. The decision comes just after Hydra University’s public statement on the hazing incident involving Barnes that occurred in late February._
> 
> _The highly-publicized incident occurred just as Hydra University finished their middling season without progressing to the play-offs. Barnes had been in his dormitory room engaging in sexual acts with another male student when five members of the Hydra University football team came into the room unannounced. According to Barnes’ testimony, the teammates dragged him from his room to a secluded area in a nearby wood where they tied Barnes up with ropes, punched and kicked him, and allegedly put a gun filled with blanks up to his head while shouting homophobic slurs at Barnes. Witnesses heard Barnes calling for help and called the Hydra University police, who found him and transported him to a nearby hospital in Coxsackie._
> 
> _One of the teammates who reportedly hazed Barnes, Jack Rollins, countered this report. Rollins stated that Barnes’ testimony was “over-exaggerated” and that the Hydra University Leviathans “always” haze new members at the end of the season. Rollins’ testimony has been disputed by a group of students who have combed student newspapers and have not found reports of hazing incidents, let alone incidents so extreme._
> 
> _According to hospital reports, Barnes sustained multiple injuries after the incident, including three broken ribs, a sprained ankle, and two chipped teeth. His left arm was so badly broken that Barnes underwent two days of surgery to realign the shattered bones, and now has metal plates installed in it. According to Barnes’ mother, doctors initially thought that Barnes’ left arm would be amputated. Regardless, Barnes’ football career is essentially over._
> 
> _Hydra University President Alexander Pierce issued a statement last week about the incident, calling it a “learning moment” for the school and athletic department, but warned people that it would be dangerous to read into the incident as more than a terrible hazing accident. Read his statement below:_
> 
> _“Last month, I was shocked to hear about the actions of several of our Hydra University football players towards their teammate, James Barnes. Hydra University does not condone hazing of any kind in our campus organizations. What troubles me, however, are allegations that this incident was anything more than hazing gone too far. In fact, I believe that it would be dangerous to read into this incident anything other than it is, and to incite a witch hunt towards those involved. These young men are just that: young men, prone to mistakes and youthful indiscretions. This incident has been a learning moment for these boys, as well as for the rest of the Hydra University Athletic Department, and the school as a whole._
> 
> _“We all hope James will have a speedy recovery and join his friends back on the field as soon as he can. He has been an asset to our football program this past season, and he knows that his place is with us.”_
> 
> _President Pierce’s statement has been criticized both by campus groups and outside organizations and individuals. Barnes’ classmate, and leader of the campus’ LGBT Action Club, Sharon Carter told us, “Anyone who believes Pierce’s statement is in denial. Members of the football team have been cited for their homophobic speech and actions many times, but never seem to receive any consequences.”_
> 
> _No critic, however, has been more vocal about the situation than Barnes’ mother Winifred Barnes. In a statement posted to her Facebook account last night she wrote, “My son is more than an “asset,” President Pierce. He is a human, someone who was left tied up and ready to die by these so-called “boys”. A youthful indiscretion is failing a class or staying out too late — it is not attempted murder.” While Pierce has not responded to Winifred Barnes’ comments, one player involved in the incident, Jasper Sitwell, wrote in a now-deleted Tweet that he was considering suing her for libel._
> 
> _The hazing situation and Hydra University’s response has opened up new conversations about how schools need to protect LGBT athletes around the country. While Triskelion College has not made any public statements regarding Barnes’ transfer, Triskelion College has a long record of being a pro-LGBT institution. Located in Needham, Massachusetts, Triskelion College is a liberal arts school with a population of 2,350 undergraduate students, and is notable for strong programs in history and linguistics. It is a Division III school._

Steve shuts the computer, leaves the room, and begins to cry.

— —

“Don’t forget,” Mr. Barnes says as the class begins to pack up the next day, “Unity Club is today after school. We meet in this room, and the rumor is that our classes’ very own Mary Jane Watson will be leading today’s discussion and that a certain math teacher baked brownies for the occasion.”

“Are they the cookie brownie hybrids?” Otto asks in a greedy voice.

Mr. Barnes shakes his head. “First of all, those are called blondies. Don’t know if they’re a hybrid, really, and not sure I’d even use that terminology. But these are better: s’mores brownies. My personal favorite.”

“Shit!” Harry says in obvious appreciation.

“Language,” Mr. Barnes says, but he’s smiling.

“What’s Unity Club?” Steve asks, mostly to himself.

“It’s a club for people who aren’t cis or straight, as well as allies to come together for support, discussion and fun! We also host events throughout the school year… Fundraisers, things like that. And the Alt-Prom, which is in a few weeks.” Gwen says peppily from next to him. She’s smiling, kind of amused, like she totally realizes that Steve had been talking to himself and not to her. “It may sound kinda lame, but it’s actually a ton of fun and Mr. Barnes bakes something every week.”

“Mr. Barnes leads the club?” Steve asks, glancing up at Mr. Barnes. He’s talking to a group of girls at the front of the classroom. They seem intent on whatever it is that he’s saying, and suddenly they all laugh, Mr. Barnes included. He throws his head back when he laughs, and he looks truly joyful.

It makes Steve smile to think about how Mr. Barnes laughs at his own jokes.

“Steve?” Gwen asks.

“Oh, uh, yeah?” he says.

“Wanna sit with me and my friends during lunch? We can talk about Unity Club, or just about the school in general. I promise we don’t bite,” Gwen says as Mr. Barnes passes by on the way to his desk.

“Nobody bites except Harry, but that was only the one time,” he says. “Sorry, eavesdropping. Part of my job,” he adds. “You already know that.”

“Creepy,” Gwen says, making a face at Mr. Barnes, who just laughs.

Gwen’s friends have moved towards the front of the room, congregating around the door, and are obviously waiting for her. Peter and Mary Jane keep shooting her meaningful looks. They don’t seem like a bad crew — Peter is Ms. Parker from the Main Office’s nephew, Harry and Mr. Barnes are constantly dishing it out to one another, and Mary Jane is apparently a leader in the school’s LGBT club, so despite her movie star good looks, she can’t be _too_ bad. And Gwen’s been nothing but nice to Steve since he walked through the door. Still, there’s something that’s keeping him from accepting her offer, the low rumble of anxiety that he feels as he thinks back on his own experiences with cool high schoolers back when he was their age.

Then all of a sudden Steve remembers: he’s not actually a high schooler. It doesn’t matter if, at the end of the day, Gwen and her friends don’t like him. He is an adult, and he doesn’t need their validation.

And… they also don’t need his snap judgment. The insecure part of himself that’s always been looking at people and trying to figure out whether they’re a threat to him is trying to tell him that this group is probably too popular, too cool, too good-looking to include him. But they’ve been nothing but kind to him, and until they pull out the pig’s blood, they don’t deserve his suspicion. It’s not fair to project his years of unhappiness onto them.

So Steve squares his shoulders and smiles. “Sure,” he says, “that’d be nice.”

“Great!” Gwen says. “Then let’s go.”

As they walk out of the room, Steve glances back at Mr. Barnes. He’s watching them, and gives Steve a little smile as they leave.

— —

Lunch is a little awkward, but not that bad. Gwen introduces him around — Peter, Harry, and Mary Jane from Algebra class are there, as is Miles from Steve’s Environmental Science class, and a girl named Felicia that he hadn’t met yet. They seem like the ‘cool nerd’ table, sort of hipster, somewhere in the upper-middle range of the high school pecking order. Far above where he was when he was in high school, but not the most popular kids in the school.

“So, how do you like Mr. Barnes?” Mary Jane asks.

He feels his cheeks getting a little warm. “He seems nice,” Steve says. “Maybe a little dorky?” he adds to try to save face.

Felicia grins. “So your crush started early,” she says.

“What?” Steve asks.

Gwen rolls her eyes. “Felicia, stop it.”

“You only want me to stop because it’s true.” She turns to Steve. “Everyone at this school gets a crush on Mr. Barnes. Doesn’t matter who you are or who you think you like… Somehow Mr. Barnes and his terrible puns worm their way into your little heart.”

“Gwen just got over hers,” Mary Jane says.

“M.J.!” Gwen says.

“Someone vandalized her student council election posters last year,” Mary Jane continues. “He found her in the hallway freaking out, then stayed after school for four hours helping her and Peter make new ones.”

“He has a great eye for color,” Peter says.

“The best part is that he doesn’t realize it,” Felicia adds, then rolls her eyes. “Not the thing about color, but the crush thing. Harry is convinced that they’re flirting whenever Mr. Barnes teases him but everyone else knows that Harry is delusional.”

“We totally are flirting,” Harry says as he pops the tab on his can of Coke.

Miles snorts. “In your dreams.”

“Exactly,” Harry says. Miles groans.

Steve laughs. He might be starting to like these kids.

— —

Steve runs late to Unity Club. He feels like an idiot — he’s already the new kid, and now he’s going to be even more conspicuous by showing up late. He had been working on a painting for Ms. Carter when the bell rang. Steve told himself that he would just finish up some final shading on the piece and be done, but the next thing he knew fifteen minutes had passed and Ms. Carter was telling him that while she appreciated his enthusiasm for the craft, she really did need him to pack up for the day.

Which is why he’s hustling over to Mr. Barnes’ classroom, swearing himself out in his mind.

He’s rounding the corner towards Mr. Barnes’ classroom when he hears what sounds like one side of an argument. Steve slows and listens in.

“… It’s just a half hour later than—“

“Brock. Brock. My car’s still—“

“It’s supposed to rain! If you want me at your place by 7 there’s no way for me to—“

“You’re the one who didn’t wanna move in together. I wasn’t going to pick up, and… Please, Brock, please stop interrupting me. I’m a five minute walk from school at the place where I am now, and—“

“Mm-hmm. No, that’s.”

“If you can’t come — no, listen — if you can’t go five minutes out of your way to come get me, then we’ll just see each other on Friday.”

“Please, Jesus. Brock, I gotta go lead my club. I can’t… I can’t have this conversation here. I’m at work, still.”

Mr. Barnes takes a sharp breath. “Why would you say that?” he asks, quiet. “Jesus, do you ever even think about what you’re saying to me?” He pauses. “Thanks,” he says softly. “I’ll… I’ll get the bus, I’ll figure it out.” He adds with a sigh. “Yeah, yeah, me too, yes.” He chuckles. “I love you,” he says softly, a little tired, then hangs up the phone, shoulders sagging. He sighs again.

And then he turns around and sees Steve standing there being a total creep.

He plasters on a smile. “Steve! Hey! You here for Unity Club?” he asks in a chipper, almost fake, voice.

Steve nods. “Yeah, I got held up in the art studio,” he says.

“You’re taking Ms. Carter’s class?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s pretty great,” he says.

There’s a long pause, and Mr. Barnes looks at him like he wants to ask him a question, but before he can a student Steve that doesn’t recognize pokes her head out of the classroom. “Mr. B, you ready to roll?” she asks.

He chuckles. “Sure thing.” He looks to Steve. “Ready?” he asks.

Steve nods. “Yeah,” he says, “Sure.”

— —

Steve wishes Unity Club had been something that had been around while he was in high school. There were schools with LGBT clubs, he’s sure, but Steve’s high school had not been one of them. It’s pretty incredible to sit in the back row and listen to Mary Jane talk about her experience coming out of the closet to her family, and how her experiences dating men and women have differed greatly because of her family’s reactions. It’s also great to see how excited the students get about Alt-Prom, the dance they host every year where people dress up, dance to bad music from the 80s, and raise money for the Trevor Foundation. When they have sign-ups for the chores involved with the dance, people sign their names with enthusiasm.

Steve knows that if he tried to talk this candidly to just about anyone at his high school or be this excited about LGBT issues, he would’ve ended up being tossed in a locker (which he was many times before), or have something worse happen to him.

Part of Steve feels a little bit bitter that this wasn’t his experience. He doesn’t like that part of himself.

But a larger part of himself feels grateful. He feels grateful to see Mr. Barnes at the front of the classroom, encouraging students to talk about their feelings and telling them that their experiences are valid. He feels grateful that there’s a space where a mousy girl in the front row can talk about her dad’s homophobia and how she doesn’t feel like she can come out, and to have Mr. Barnes tell her that there’s no pressure for her to do so, especially if she feels like she’d be in an unsafe situation. Just because Steve didn’t get to experience something like this doesn’t mean that he begrudges the people who do. In fact, it gives him a little hope about the future, and about a world where people can accept each other a bit better.

And he thinks that he has an idea for what his story will be about.

— —

A few weeks pass without hitch. Steve goes to his classes, participates in a few clubs. He sticks with Gwen and her friends, partially because they’re good examples for his article, but mostly because he likes them. They’re good kids, relatively down to earth — though they still have their ridiculous-sounding teenage issues that Steve wants to roll his eyes about but knows that to them, they feel like the end of the world.

He doesn’t have to do most of his homework, because it’s not like he’s concerned about his grades, but he finds himself spending more and more time in Ms. Carter’s studio. Ms. Carter doesn’t mind letting him spend his free time in there, especially when he offers to help her clean up in exchange for a few extra supplies and some time to work without other students there. He paints and draws, and when Ms. Carter asks if she can send his work to a few friends of hers with some connections, he finds himself saying yes.

“Ms. Carter told me that she’s recommending you for AP Art next semester,” Sam tells him before school one day. They’re at a coffee shop by Steve’s apartment — a respectable distance from school, so no one should be there and recognize them. Sam is very concerned about hanging out with Steve because he doesn’t want anyone to recognize them. Steve understands where he’s coming from, but he also misses his friend.

“Yeah?” Steve asks, perking up. Sam raises an eyebrow. “Shut up,” Steve mutters, taking an embarrassed sip of coffee.

“No, Steve, c’mon. You’re the cutest little meerkat in the whole pack. It’s nice to see you excited about something.”

“Really Sam?” Steve asks, frustrated. “Now?”

“I won’t start,” Sam says.

“Good,” Steve says. “Now gimme some of your bagel.”

“No way. I paid for this lox, so I’m going to eat this lox. Get your own damn bagel. I don’t know why I even hang out with you.”

“The stellar company?” Steve suggests.

“Nah, think I gotta find people who make me sparkle even more by comparison.”

Steve rolls his eyes and picks at his muffin. He really should’ve gotten a bagel.

A cloud of gloom hangs over Steve the rest of the day like he’s Eeyore, because he can’t stop thinking about his reaction to hearing about Ms. Carter signing him up for AP Art. He was excited in a way that he hadn’t felt in a long time; he hadn’t been that excited the last time he got a promotion, or went on a date. Steve loves making art in a way that he doesn’t love most other things.

And it’s making him think about a lot of things, about whether or not he even likes the life that he’s created for himself. It’s not a great way to spend a school day.

“Steve?” Mr. Barnes asks. Steve jolts out of his thoughts.

“What?” he asks.

Mr. Barnes is leaning against his desk, looking at Steve with concern. Steve looks around, and most of the class has already filed out. He’d already told Gwen that he wasn’t going to be at lunch, so she and her friends hadn’t stuck around for him. “You okay?” Mr. Barnes asks in a quiet voice.

“Sorry, I’m just… distracted today,” Steve says. It’s a bit of an understatement.

“College apps?” Mr. Barnes asks. Steve nods, because it’s not like he can really tell Mr. Barnes about his actual problems. “You wanna know the secret to the whole process that no one will tell you?” Mr. Barnes asks.

“Sure,” Steve says.

“Things work out,” Mr. Barnes says. “It won’t always be the way you expect it to, but you’ll figure it out. The difficult moments are thinking moments. Sometimes you’ll have to reassess where you are, _who_ you are, and what you wanna be, but that’s okay. That’s what life is, and sometimes you’ve just gotta accept that it’s an adventure that’s not always in your control.” He pauses, smiles. “Everyone gets in somewhere. Don’t let people convince you otherwise. If you wanna go to college, you’ll go to college. And you’ll make your mark no matter where you end up. That’s a promise.”

Steve can’t help but smile. “Let me guess, your college major was in inspiring speeches.”

“Nah, I majored in wasting my students’ lunchtime with advice they didn’t ask for.”

Steve chuckles. “Wow,” he says, “and they say no one ever did much with a liberal arts degree.”

“Making liberal arts jokes already? See, you’re more than prepared for university!” he adds with a laugh.

Steve leaves a minute after that, and while he wasn’t worried about colleges or majors, or anything like that, his talk with Mr. Barnes did make him feel a lot better. He gives good advice, and he’s kind about it. But as Steve walks down the hall towards Sam’s office, the happy feeling dissolves into something bigger and heavy in the pit of his stomach, and it won’t go away.

The fact is, he’s realizing that he really does have a crush on Mr. Barnes.

_Mr. Barnes._

Not the guy from prom night, not the idea of the man Steve’s been building up in his mind for ages, but the true, real, solid man who teaches his math class and laughs at his own terrible jokes. He has a crush on a man who is in a committed relationship, and who bakes treats for his club every week.

And while that’s not something that would fill Steve with despair most of the time, the fact is that Steve has a crush on his teacher.

And his teacher is under the impression that Steve is seventeen years-old.

— —

“Let’s get drinks tonight,” Steve says in lieu of greeting Sam as he shuts the door to Sam’s office.

“No,” Sam says.

“Why not?” Steve huffs, crossing his arms over his chest as he drops into his seat.

“First of all, it’s because I have my masters class, which I have every Wednesday, and which you would remember if you weren’t so caught up in your own weird shit and remembered something about your friends’ lives every so often.” Steve looks down, feeling guilty as hell. “And second, it’s a goddamn terrible idea for me to be seen out drinking with one of my students, undercover reporter or not. I’m not losing my job because you have pants feelings for your math teacher. You’re not the first one, nor the last to come into my office crying over Mr. Barnes and his pretty hair.”

In lieu of addressing any of Sam’s actual, valid points, Steve decides to be petulant, rude, and a bad friend. He says, “We could go out of town after your class.”

“Nope, nu-uh, no way. I will not go drinking anywhere until this silly charade is over. Getting coffee? Weird, but not a big deal at the end of the day. But I will not buy you a gin and tonic until you are back to your normal, boring life. And then I will buy you ten and me twenty because I deserve twenty G&Ts for having to put up with you right now.”

Steve frowns.

Sam groans. “Call Clint — he was telling me that Natasha misses you.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “She said that?” he asks. Natasha doesn’t do things like miss people; or, at least she doesn’t tell people that she does. It would imply some kind of human weakness, which she does not have, according to most reports.

“Of course she didn’t. Clint says that it was implied, which makes me think that she really does miss you. That’s a compliment. At least, I think it is.”

“Fine,” Steve says, pulling out his phone and drafting a text to Clint and Natasha. He pauses, looks up at Sam and adds, quietly, “But it won’t be nearly as fun without you.”

Sam smiles. “I know, you big softie. I’ll make sure not to confiscate your phone, just because you’re _so sweet_.” Steve snorts. Sam shrugs. “Not my fault that you’re breaking the rules. You’re still a student.”

“I know.” He finishes his message, then presses send. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a jerk throughout this whole situation.”

“Just this situation?” Sam asks. Steve glares at him a little. Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” he says. “And I only point these things out to you because you gotta know or else you won’t grow as a person. As your high school guidance counselor, I have to make sure that your social-emotional learning standards are up to snuff, and right now they aren’t.”

Steve frowns. “What does that even mean?” he asks.

“Hell if I know, but the state says we have to talk about it so I talk about it.”

“You’re a good counselor, Sam.”

Sam grins. “Damn right I am.”

— —

“I told them that I wasn’t interested, but then Lucky pulled us over—“

“Even after all those obedience lessons?” Steve asks.

“Total scam. What a bunch of bullshit. Worst money I ever spent,” Clint mutters. “Anyhow,” he says, launching back into the story.

Steve knows he should listen more carefully, but Steve finds his mind wandering as Clint and Natasha talk and laugh. Usually he loves hearing all of Clint’s exploits, but school has him stressed. It must show on his face because Natasha pokes his side after a few minutes. “You’re not paying attention,” she says, voice admonishing, but Steve can tell that she’s really asking if he’s okay.

“Sorry,” Steve says, mustering up a smile. “Long day.”

Natasha takes a small sip of her vodka martini. “You haven’t told us anything about the article.”

Steve shrugs. “There’s not a whole lot to talk about that you don’t already know,” he says.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Really?” she asks.

“Yeah, all the hot gossip is about people you’ve never met, so I think something would be lost in translation.”

“Aw,” Clint says, “but I wanted to know everything about who Stacey is taking to the prom!”

Steve snorts. “It’s Kevin, but don’t tell Jennifer — she’ll be heartbroken.”

“Whatever will Jennifer do?” Natasha asks.

“Perish, I’m sure,” Steve says.

“Maybe Steve’ll take her instead,” Clint adds.

Natasha wrinkles her nose. “No,” she says. “He’s undercover but that’s going a little too far.”

“That’s my cue to go get another round,” Steve says, standing up. “Any takers?”

“Yes, please,” Clint says.

“Another Revolution Anti-Hero?” Steve asks. Clint nods. “Natasha?”

“Sure,” she says, “the usual.”

Steve nods, then pushes his way to the bar. It’s halfway between the high school and the island of Manhattan, a nice little place that he’s been to once or twice, but hasn’t seen this busy before. He’s pleasantly tipsy and at the point of drunkenness where he’ll need to decide whether to finish up and sober up, or to really commit to getting drunk and just go for it.

He’s planning on doing the former when he sees Mr. Barnes across the room, deep in conversation with the man who Steve thinks is his boyfriend.

Steve orders a tray of tequila shots.

— —

In the morning, Steve will not understand why he didn’t just leave the bar. It’s not like Clint or Natasha would’ve minded, especially if he just stopped to explain the situation. Maybe it was the daredevil streak inside of him, or the self-destructive one that made him return to his table with twelve tequila shots and a look of grim determination. He doesn’t know, and probably never will.

Either way, he’s two shots in when he decides to sneak another glance over at Mr. Barnes. One glance becomes a long stare, and, well. When you stare at someone for long enough, they’re bound to look back.

Still, it somehow shocks Steve when Mr. Barnes turns his head and looks Steve in the eye.

Steve sees Mr. Barnes’ eyes go wide in recognition, looking from Steve to the empty shot glass in Steve’s hand. Steve quickly turns back to his friends, hoping that this will blow over smoothly, though he gets the feeling that it won’t.

“Steve?” Clint asks, sensing the sudden shift in his demeanor. Steve just shakes his head and reaches for another shot, which he throws back as quick as he can. He winces when the alcohol hits his tongue, but he drinks it all because, frankly, no matter what happens next he’s going to want to be drunk for it. And lo and behold, when he opens his eyes again, Mr. Barnes is standing at their table.

“Steve,” he says, low and controlled.

“Uh, hi Mr. Barnes,” Steve says, unable to meet Mr. Barnes’ disappointed glare. Instead, he looks from Clint to Natasha, silently begging them not to blow his cover.

Mr. Barnes seems to notice where he’s looking and his expression goes downright cold. “Who’re your friends?” he asks.

Steve balks. He didn’t have a cover story ready for Clint and Natasha. He never anticipated seeing someone from school at this place. Thankfully, Natasha chimes in, “I’m Natasha and this is Clint. We take an art class downtown together once a week. How do you know Steve?” she asks, all innocence.

“I’m his math teacher,” Mr. Barnes says low and cold. “Are those shots?” he asks.

Clint nods. “Tequila. You want one?” he asks, smiling. Steve resists the urge to kick his shin; this is a very serious situation!

“And do you happen to know that Steve is seventeen?” Mr. Barnes asks.

Natasha’s eyes go wide before she turns to Steve. “Steve?” she asks, breathy. “Is that true?” which is, okay, a little over dramatic.

He shrugs. “Guess I am,” he mutters, trying to channel his inner teenager, caught in the act of lying. He thinks he’s doing a pretty good job, all things considered.

“That’s not good,” Clint says before pounding back a shot. Steve rolls his eyes. “What? The mood is very tense right now!”

Mr. Barnes sighs. “Steve, I’m going to go tell my date that I’m leaving, then I’m driving you home,” Mr. Barnes says.

“But—“ Steve starts.

“But if you prefer, I can call the police and report your friends for providing a minor with alcohol. Your choice,” he interrupts, putting his hands on his hips and raising an eyebrow. Steve slumps back in his seat, crosses his arms over _his_ chest. Part of him wants to blow his cover right now, just so he doesn’t have to leave his friends on his first night out in ages, but he stays quiet. “That’s what I thought,” Mr. Barnes says. “Stay there, I’ll be back in a minute.”

As soon as Mr. Barnes is out of earshot Clint starts laughing. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but that was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen a math teacher do. The eyebrows on that man!”

“It’s not sexy,” Steve lies.

“I wonder if that’s his bedroom voice,” Natasha says, not taking her eyes off Steve.

“Oh my God,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. Then he musters up a smile. “Thanks though, for covering for me,” he says to Natasha. He ignores Clint. Clint didn’t do much.

Natasha nods. “It’s my fault you have this stupid assignment in the first place,” she says. “Just promise me you’ll find your angle quickly so you can come back to work. We miss you.”

Steve smiles, looks down at his lap. He didn’t think he’d ever hear Natasha say something like that, and he didn’t realize how nice it would be to hear.

“I’ll try,” Steve says, he looks back up and past Natasha to where Mr. Barnes is. He’s talking to Brock, who Steve recognizes from the photos Mr. Barnes showed them on the first day of class. He’s a big presence, tall and intimidating with five o’clock shadow and dark eyes. He looks angry, too, those eyes wide and jaw set as he talks to Mr. Barnes.

“Shit,” Clint says. Steve turns to Clint and it looks like Clint followed his gaze over to the arguing couple. “Dunno that guy, but is he giving anyone else asshole vibes? Because I’m sensing asshole vibes.”

“I overheard them arguing over the phone once,” Steve admits. “It wasn’t pretty.”

“Probably a good thing that you’re getting your teacher out of here,” Natasha says. “Doesn’t look like his boyfriend’s having a great time.” As she says that, Brock throws his arms up in frustration.

“Damn,” Clint says. “You’d think the most beautiful math teacher in the world would find someone who doesn’t look like an expendable bad guy from a decent superhero movie.”

Steve frowns; Mr. Barnes is a good guy and a great teacher. Steve’s crush aside, he deserves to be with someone who treats him well. From Brock’s body language, there’s something… not violent, per se, but aggressive about him, setting Steve’s heckles on edge. Honestly, if that guy makes the wrong move, Steve will beat him up, false identity be damned.

Steve takes another look at the guy.

Okay, he’ll _try_ to beat him up. But it’s the thought that counts in gift-giving and chivalrous fights.

But then Mr. Barnes turns around. He takes a few steps away from Brock, then pauses. He shuts his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, then starts towards Steve’s table again.

“D-Day,” Clint mutters just before Mr. Barnes arrives.

“Ready?” Mr. Barnes asks, though it’s not really a question.

“Humor me for a moment,” Clint says. Mr. Barnes raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything. “How much have you had to drink tonight? Are you good to drive?”

Steve can’t help his smile — he hadn’t even thought that there was a possibility that Mr. Barnes was drunk, but it’s nice that Clint is looking out for him.

Mr. Barnes nods. “That’s a good question,” he says, sounding like a teacher. “Thank you. But I don’t drink, so there’s no worry there. Steve will be safe from drunk drivers. Maybe not safe from the lecture of a lifetime, but that’s it.” He pauses, then adds hesitantly, “Do you two need…?”

“Uber,” Natasha says. “But thanks, teach.”

He frowns. “If I ever see you giving alcohol to a minor again I’m calling the cops.”

“Technically, Steve bought the drinks,” Clint says, then yelps. Steve kicked him in the shin underneath the table. He deserves it.

Mr. Barnes’ eyes flick over to Steve. “C’mon,” he grumbles, crossing his hands over his chest.

Feeling like a man walking to the execution chamber, Steve stands up (slowly, because he’s had a few drinks) and follows Mr. Barnes out the door and into the parking lot. “It’s the red Prius,” Mr. Barnes says.

“A Prius?” Steve asks with a snort.

“I’m a teacher. I’m contractually obligated to have either a Prius or a Honda Accord, and I thought a Prius was cooler.”

“Ms. Carter has a Mini Cooper,” Steve says. He once helped her carry supplies in from her trunk to the classroom.

“Yeah, well, Ms. Carter is way cooler than the rest of us. You already knew that, though.” Mr. Barnes grumbles. They walk in silence for another minute until they reach Mr. Barnes’ car. He unlocks it with his key fob and opens the driver’s door. “Hop in,” he says.

Steve does so, getting into the passenger seat and buckling himself in. The car has dark cloth seats and there’s an empty can of Diet Coke sitting in the cupholder. Steve turns his head and sees that the back seat is pretty much covered in white fur — from Winter, Steve would guess. If the situation were less awkward, that would have made him smile.

Meanwhile, Mr. Barnes pulls himself into the driver’s seat and buckles himself in. He takes a moment, though, before he starts the car, to take a deep breath, eyes shut. He sags. It’s obviously a private moment, one where Mr. Barnes is trying to pull himself together, and Steve feels intrusive just for looking. He pulls his gaze away and looks down at his hands, sitting in his lap. His fingers are so long compared to the rest of him.

A few moments later, Steve hears the car start, and the radio begins playing something jazzy and retro. Before Steve can place the song, Mr. Barnes turns the dial way down; Steve can barely hear anything besides the faintest tune.

“Are you a vegetarian?” Mr. Barnes asks.

“What?” Steve asks, looking back up at Mr. Barnes. Mr. Barnes raises an eyebrow instead of answering. “I’m not,” Steve says.

“Are you morally opposed to McDonald’s?”

“No,” Steve says. “Though I wish they’d raise their minimum wage to $15.”

Mr. Barnes chuckles, looks down at the steering wheel. “You crack me up,” he says. He exhales. “Anyhow, I’m gonna take you to McDonald’s to help you sober up, lecture you, and then drop you off at home, okay?”

“Okay,” Steve says, half-surprised that Mr. Barnes isn’t taking him to the police or something like that. Not that he wanted to go to the police, but it wouldn’t have been out of the question for Mr. Barnes to take him there.

“I will have to report this to Principal Xavier and Mr. Wilson, too, but I think you’ll just have a few counseling sessions with Mr. Wilson since you’re a first time offender. Get caught again, though, and you’ll be suspended.”

“Sounds fair,” Steve says.

Mr. Barnes nods again, then shifts gears and starts backing out of his parking space. He’s a good driver — calm, thoughtful, and uses his turn signal. It doesn’t surprise Steve in the least.

They’re quiet on the ride to McDonald’s. Mr. Barnes doesn’t turn the radio back up, so Steve is alone with his thoughts as he watches the city roll past the window. He typically likes being in the car while someone else drives. Sure, he’s a bit of a control freak and will engage in a little backseat driving most of the time, but he relishes the time alone in his head. But he doesn’t like _this_. Every time he sneaks a glance over at Mr. Barnes his brow is furrowed, his eyes focused on the road as he frowns. Nothing of his usual, happy demeanor is there. He seems upset, and Steve knows that it’s (mostly) his fault.

It takes almost ten minutes to get to McDonald’s. “Chicken nuggets sound okay?” Mr. Barnes asks.

“Sounds great,” Steve says. Steve tries not to eat a lot of fast food because it always drains his bank account (it always costs more than he thinks it will) and because he’s got to be careful about what he eats because of his health. But he’ll still get it after a particularly shitty day or on a long drive as a treat.

Mr. Barnes pulls into the drive-through line and orders them both McNuggets combos with a Sprite. Steve offers to pay for himself, which Mr. Barnes declines, and once they get the food, Mr. Barnes parks the car in the McDonald’s parking lot underneath a streetlamp.

“Okay,” Mr. Barnes says once they each have their food. “I’m gonna start lecturing you now.”

“Alright,” Steve says, “I can take it.”

Mr. Barnes takes a deep breath.

“You shouldn’t drink,” he says.

“Probably,” Steve says.

“Don’t make this into a joke, Steve. You shouldn’t be drinking.” He sighs. “We put a lot of pressure on kids your age. I know that. We’re telling you constantly to think about the future and how great the future will be and so you all start thinking that you should start doing stuff like you’re an adult before you actually are. It’s our fault — we throw AP classes and stuff like that at you when you’re kids and tell you that you’re somehow ahead of your own timeline. Then you get the idea that you should start acting like adults, and do stuff like drink before you have to, and it’s just… It’s not smart. There are a lot of reasons why you shouldn’t be drinking at you age health-wise. And health problems aside, you can get into serious trouble, mess up your future kind of trouble. We don’t teach kids _how_ to drink when you’re young, and you all tend to overdo it. Throwing back tequila shots like there’s no tomorrow isn’t safe.” Steve looks down at the sack of fast food in his lap.

“You are incredibly talented, Steve.”

“How would you know?” Steve asks. “I suck at math.”

Mr. Barnes laughs, shakes his head. “Don’t you know that teachers gossip?” he says. Steve knows this because Sam is his best friend, but he just shrugs to save face. “Ms. Carter is so impressed by your work. She’s already talked to some of her contacts at the Rhode Island School of Design and the Savannah College of Art and Design about sending them your portfolio this fall. But getting caught doing something like this could put all of that in jeopardy.”

“I know,” Steve says.

“The point is…” Mr. Barnes pauses, sighs. “The point is that you don’t have to be in a rush. You have so many opportunities, so many fantastic things ahead of you. And if you wanna drink someday, you’ll get the chance to. Believe me. But you have to be safer, and you have to be smarter than this.” He pauses. “Is there a reason you were out tonight?” he asks, quiet. “Are things okay at home? I’m required by law to report certain things, but if you want me to, I can connect you with someone you can speak to confidentially, just say the word.”

Steve shakes his head. “Everything’s fine at home.” He doesn’t know why he says what he says next, but he finds himself saying, “I just feel directionless, lately.”

Mr. Barnes gives him a sad smile. “That’s normal. Everyone has that. I’ve felt that way before, believe me.”

“Is that what you felt like after…” Steve trails off, the gravity of his mistake hitting him at once. “Sorry—“ he starts, but Mr. Barnes interrupts him with a chuckle.

“So you’ve Googled me?” he asks with a smile. Steve looks down, but nods. “Don’t worry, it’s not like it’s a secret.” He sighs, smile fading. “Yeah, I felt like that after.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say. He wants to know more about what happened — more about Mr. Barnes, in general — but he knows that it’s not his place to pry.

But then Mr. Barnes asks, “You wanna know more?” Steve looks up. “It’s fine. I don’t mind talking about it.” He exhales. “But yeah. It sucked really, really bad, and I felt like crap after it happened, both physically and mentally. There’s still stuff wrong with my arm because of what happened, and it’ll never be the same. But I also felt like crap for a long time before it happened, too. It wasn’t a good environment for me, and I knew that. I stayed because I felt obligated. Their stunt was just the physical result of months of snide comments and shoves. It didn’t come out of nowhere.”

“Okay,” Steve says, quietly.

“I’m not someone who’s gonna spew nonsense about things happening for a reason. Sometimes stuff happens and you just gotta find a way to deal with it. But after it happened, I got to make a bunch of decisions. I stopped playing football, I transferred schools, I switched outta a sports therapy major and into an education program, all of which were _good_ decisions that I’m happy I made. I like what I do, and I like to think that I’m good at it, and I wouldn’t be doing it if I stayed at Hydra U. Making opportunities outta bad situations is one of the things that you gotta learn to do to keep life from dragging you down.”

“You like your job?” Steve asks.

“Not so much when I see one of my students throwing back shots of tequila at a bar on a school night, but most of the time, yeah,” he says with a nod. “No matter what you do you’re gonna have bad days, but if you find something that makes you want to get up and go to work even when you’re tired and grumpy, then you’ve found what you should be doing. Of course, there are a lot of people who don’t find it, or who figure out that the only thing they really like to do is eat candy or—“

“Drink tequila shots?” Steve offers.

Mr. Barnes shoots him a look. “Don’t even start,” he says, then his face softens. “You have your art, right? Is that what you want to do? Go to art school, end up in the Met? Be very impressive?”

Steve slumps a little. “I dunno,” he says.

“You don’t have to, if it’s not what you want,” Mr. Barnes says, soft.

“I’d like to, but it’s not that easy,” Steve says. “You don’t just make a painting and get into the Met. There’s a lot of stuff that’s out of your control, even if you are a decent artist.”

“Probably not,” Mr. Barnes says. “But most things worth doing take a heck of a lot of work. There are some outlying factors, of course, but generally speaking, successful people are people who managed to work hard despite the challenges.” He sighs. “Or those who were born rich, but that’s a different story.”

“You talk like an after school special,” Steve says, rolling his eyes.

“We have an entire course on that at teacher college,” Mr. Barnes says.

“That can’t be true,” Steve says.

“First rule of teacher’s college is that you can’t talk about teacher’s college.”

“You did not just quote _Fight Club_ at me,” Steve says. “Are you gonna put on a fedora? Get on Reddit? Try to argue that egalitarianism is the only way society can go forward?”

Mr. Barnes laughs. “Jeez, chill out. I’m not gonna be that kinda gross person. I just liked the movie when it came out and read the book a while later, and hey! Chuck Palahniuk is probably just as pissed that _Fight Club_ is being misunderstood as anything but a criticism of American toxic masculinity as I am.”

“And here I thought you were a _math_ teacher,” Steve says.

“I’m a high school teacher. I’m an all-around well-educated guy.” Steve chuckles and Mr. Barnes pauses to eat a chicken nugget. “It’s funny,” he says when he’s done, “and this is a little weird, but you really remind me of someone.”

“I do?” Steve asks, then swallows hard. He takes a sip of his Sprite.

Mr. Barnes nods. “This, yeah, it sounds so weird, but I met this guy when I was a senior in high school. He was from a nearby school and he got egged by this guy who had asked him to prom as a cruel joke right before they were supposed to go.”

Steve’s heart starts beating fast. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah. Winter ran over to him — that was back when she was just a young puppy and not well-trained — and we chatted about it. Never caught his name or anything, but I thought I remembered what his face looked like.” He pauses, sighs. “I just remember thinking about how strong and brave that guy was. There he was, dealing with one of the biggest nightmares a teenager could deal with, and he was playing with Winter and making me laugh and smile. I think about him more than I should for someone I just talked to the one time, but I’ve wondered what he’s been up to. Dunno why I’m even talking about it now, except that you reminded me of him. That’s why I asked if you had any relatives on that first day of classes. It was like I saw a ghost.”

Steve thinks over what Mr. Barnes just said. He thinks over the way that Mr. Barnes described him. Not in a million years would he have characterized himself in the way that Mr. Barnes just did, as being brave and strong. He was the one who was a mess, and it was Mr. Barnes who came over and saved the day. There was nothing heroic about Steve — he just sat on a swing and moped, then petted a cute dog who came by.

Steve aches, wanting to ask Mr. Barnes more clarifying questions. He wants to know exactly what Mr. Barnes was thinking that night, and whether he’s thought of Steve throughout the years in the same way that Steve has thought about him. He wants to—

He wants to tell Mr. Barnes the truth. He wants to tell him that it really was Steve who was there that night, and he wants to tell Mr. Barnes that he changed Steve’s life with that kindness he showed him.

Steve looks over at Mr. Barnes, who is thoughtfully eating a french fry. He’s a good guy. Mr. Barnes cares about his students and his work, and he’s doing the best he can. There aren’t a lot of people in the world who would ditch their date to get their student home safe, but Mr. Barnes just did. There’s something really special about Mr. Barnes, and Steve hopes that he knows that.

Because Steve can’t be the one to tell him. At least, not yet. There will be time, hopefully, after this assignment is done. But it’s not the time right now. Steve needs to focus on his career, and while it feels like time is slipping away from him, this assignment won’t last forever.

Steve sighs and takes another sip of his Sprite.

“I’d apologize for boring you, but I won’t tonight, since me being boring is the least of your troubles. You could’ve gotten into a heck of a lot more trouble than you did.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, quiet.

Mr. Barnes looks over at him. “What?” he asks, french fry still in hand.

“For this, for not getting police involved or anything.” He pauses. “And for telling me about what happened to you. I appreciate that,” he says, quietly. “It can’t be easy.”

Mr. Barnes nods. “It’s not a problem, Steve,” he says.

“Still,” Steve says.

“I get it.” He says with a smile, then sighs. “You done with your food?” he asks. Steve nods. “Okay, I’m gonna take you home.”

Steve gives Mr. Barnes his address, feeling lucky that Natasha chose a school for him to attend where he actually lives in the district. It would probably look really fishy if his place were in Hoboken.

“And I wanna talk to your parents,” Mr. Barnes says as he turns the key in the ignition and starts the car up again.

Steve’s eyes go wide.

Shit.

“They’re dead,” Steve blurts out. Mr. Barnes looks at Steve with wide eyes. “They have been for a while, but they’re still, y’know, dead.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Barnes says, looking at Steve with his big blue eyes. He looks like he’s about to have a coronary. “I didn’t know, and I should’ve asked about your guardians. That was really thoughtless of me.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Steve says, “but I could take you to their cemetery plot if you really wanna talk to them about this. We’d have to sneak in because visiting hours are over, or we could go tomorrow after school,” he adds, trying to keep himself from laughing. Steve’s ma passed away after his sophomore year of college, and his dad when he was really young. While the loss of his mother still stings, it’s not something that he gets upset about anymore. Besides, he thinks that his ma would be laughing if she saw the pickle that Steve has gotten himself into lately, and this scene would just set her off completely.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Mr. Barnes says, looking confused as to whether Steve is joking or not. “But I should talk to--”

“My guardian is in Spain on business,” Steve says.

“Really,” Mr. Barnes says, flat. He doesn’t believe him. Steve nods. “And do you always refer to your guardian as your guardian?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “It’s complicated,” he says. “Talk to Mr. Wilson about it.”

Mr. Barnes purses his lips. “I’ll buy it for now,” he says, “but don’t think that I won’t be in touch with Mr. Wilson about it, because that’ll be the first thing I do when I get in tomorrow.”

Steve makes a mental note to text Sam about this as soon as he gets back to his apartment. He doesn’t like the idea of doing so; Sam will never stop giving him crap about it, but if it’s what he has to do to keep Mr. Barnes from prying too deeply into his guardian situation, then it’s what he has to do. Though he can show Mr. Barnes his parents’ burial plot. That much was true.

Mr. Barnes drives to Steve’s apartment quietly, the radio still just a faint hum in the background. When Mr. Barnes gets to his apartment, he stops the car and looks at Steve.

“Promise me you won’t do this again,” he says.

“I promise,” Steve says.

Mr. Barnes nods. “And I believe you, okay?”

“Thanks,” Steve says.

“And I’m here for you, if you need me to be. Doesn’t matter the issue, just lemme know if you’re having problems and I’ll be there with bells on. Don’t have to slam tequila shots to get my attention.”

“With bells on?” Steve asks, giggling. “My grandma would say that.”

“Yeah, yeah, make fun of the old guy, but the offer stands. You don’t gotta go get drunk with a bunch of adults, Steve. You’ve got time.”

Steve nods again. “Alright,” he says, quiet.

“Okay, lecture over. There’ll be more tomorrow, and a visit to Principal Fury, but you go get some sleep, okay?” Steve nods. “Night Steve.”

“Night Mr. B,” Steve says before leaving the car and heading inside his building.

He notices that Mr. Barnes waits on the street until Steve is inside. Somehow, that’s the most meaningful part of the entire night.

— —

When Steve gets to school on Thursday there are no real ramifications. He gets sent to Sam’s office, where they chat for half a period, and Principal Fury doesn’t even bother calling him in, since lecturing him about drinking would be a little pointless. Apparently, Principal Fury made sure to tell Sam to tell Steve that he was being a stupid asshole, and if he got caught again it’d be game over for the article, but he was too busy to tell that to Steve himself. Steve was fine with that. Principle Fury is a scary man, and he likes the excuse to ditch French and hang out with Sam instead.

Honestly, Steve is in a pretty good mood when he gets to math class.

Except Mr. Barnes isn’t standing at the front of the room. Instead, there’s a brunette woman sitting at his desk. Steve takes his usual seat next to Gwen and asks, “Where’s Mr. Barnes?”

“Oooh, missing your crush?” Harry asks from behind them. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Rumor is that he’s out sick today,” Gwen says. “Wasn’t in all morning.”

“Really?” Steve asks, mostly rhetorical, thinking of last night. He seemed fine then; though, it doesn’t take long to get sick. Still, Steve worries.

He’s still mulling that over when the woman at Mr. Barnes’ desk stands up. “Hi all,” she says. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Ms. Martinelli, and I teach drama. I’m also married to Ms. Carter in the art department, so if you act out today and are in her classes, you’ll be washing paintbrushes the rest of the semester.” There are chuckles from some of the students in Ms. Carter’s classes, Steve included. “I’m covering for Mr. Barnes today, who is out sick. Now, I don’t know a lot about math, so we’re going to watch a movie. I know that must be a huge disappointment to everyone, so save all your complaints for Mr. Barnes when he gets back.” There’s a chorus of cheers throughout the class, which makes Steve roll his eyes. As much of a relief as it is to not do math for a day, he’s worried about Mr. Barnes. He can’t shake the feeling.

They watch the first half of _Hidden Figures_ , which is a great movie and a good choice for the class, but Steve has trouble paying attention. He really wishes he knew that Mr. Barnes is okay.

His unease continues through the rest of the day, to the point where he almost sends Mr. Barnes an email, just to check in on him. There’s just something off that he can’t put his finger on, and he just doesn’t know why.

He just hopes Mr. Barnes will be back in school the next day.

— —

They finish _Hidden Figures_ on Friday, and _The Imitation Game_ on Monday and Tuesday.

— —

Steve walks into class on Wednesday and sighs with relief. Mr. Barnes is sitting at his desk. He’s looking a little worse for wear: pale, with bags under his eyes. He doesn’t look up when people enter the classroom, and he’s not chatting with anyone, or even smiling. His focus is on his computer, where he listlessly types. There’s definitely something off, and Steve isn’t sure that he’s sick, but it’s also not his place to ask about it.

Steve goes to his desk and just sort of looks at Mr. Barnes, who doesn’t look up. Then Gwen passes him a note.

_Overheard teachers talking during last night’s Student Council meeting. Apparently Mr. Barnes and his boyfriend broke up last week. They were together a long time, so he took a few days off._

Steve scribbles back, _Shit. Thanks for telling me._ Then hands her back the note. She smiles at him and nods.

He looks over at Mr. Barnes. He really is looking worse for wear, and Steve wonders why he and Brock broke up.

In his heart, he’s glad. Selfishly, it makes Steve happy because he has his undeniable crush on Mr. Barnes. But he’s also relieved, just because of the phone call he overheard between Mr. Barnes and Brock before Unity Club, and the way Brock behaved at the bar when Mr. Barnes told him he’d be leaving. The guy didn’t seem to have Mr. Barnes’ best interests at heart, and even if Steve has no chance with him — which he doesn’t — he wants Mr. Barnes to be with someone who loves him, and treats him well. This guy did not appear to treat him well.

But that train of thought makes Steve think about the bar, and whether that had something to do with them breaking up. Did it? Was it Steve’s fault that Mr. Barnes is sitting at his desk, looking disheveled and miserable? Even if it is better that they broke up, Steve would hate himself if he made Mr. Barnes feel like that.

But before Steve can go too far down that rabbit hole, Mr. Barnes stands up. “Hi all,” he says. “Guess it’s time to start.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Wanna start off by talking about the movies? How’d you like ‘em?”

The class spends a few minutes giving their opinions about the films — most positive; only one that makes Steve glare at the student who says it — then they get on to the math. Mr. Barnes is more subdued than usual, but he gets through the lesson with ease and even a pun or two. Still, his usual vigor just isn’t there, and it’s not a hard decision for Steve to stay a little bit after class. Mr. Barnes chats with a few people, and when they’re done, Steve steps over. “Uh, hi Mr. Barnes,” he says.

“Hi Steve,” Mr. Barnes says, walking to his desk. “You okay?”

Steve nods. “Wanted to ask if you were.”

“That’s very nice of you. I’m fine; just came down with a bug.” He smiles, and doesn’t offer any other information. Of course he wouldn’t; they’re not friends, and Steve is just his student. The realization hits Steve hard. This isn’t any of his business.

“Okay,” Steve says, mustering a smile. “Feel better soon.”

“Thanks,” Mr. Barnes says, then turns to his computer.

Steve leaves the classroom with a sigh, and goes to join Gwen and her friends in the cafeteria. He packed his own lunch (he’s an adult, and he has had more than enough crappy cafeteria food to last him a lifetime) so he still arrives before a couple of the kids who buy their lunches do.

“You stay behind to talk to Mr. Barnes?” Peter asks.

Steve nods. “Yeah.”

“I had him first period,” Miles says. “He looks rough.”

“Did he tell you what’s going on?” Peter asks.

Steve shakes his head. “Just said he had a cold.”

Miles frowns. “Hope he feels better soon.”

“Me too,” Steve says, not commenting on what Gwen told him in the note. If the break-up’s not public knowledge, then he probably shouldn’t spread the rumor. Still, he wants desperately to confirm it, just so he can know and try to make it up to Mr. Barnes if it was his fault that they broke up. How he’d make it up to him, Steve doesn’t know. But he would try.

“Hope it doesn’t interfere with Alt-Prom,” Peter says.

“What will interfere with Alt-Prom?” Mary Jane asks as she sits down with her full red cafeteria tray. “Hey all,” she says.

“Mr. Barnes being sick,” Miles says.

“It won’t,” Mary Jane says. “I’ve already talked to him. He’ll be there and will supervise everything. He wouldn’t miss Alt-Prom; it’s his favorite Unity Club activity of the year.” Mary Jane turns to Steve. “You decided if you’re coming yet?”

Steve shrugs. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll come.”

It’s not like he’s ever had a bad experience with prom before, so he’s sure nothing will go wrong.

— —

There’s a strange sense of déjà vu as Steve puts on a suit that Saturday night. People dress up for the Alt-Prom, but always with a little twist, since it’s supposed to be a play on prom, but not the actual thing. Steve bought a sparkly blue suit jacket from a secondhand shop to wear over black suit pants and with a bowtie. He’s not going as far out as some of the Unity Club members will. Mary Jane is reportedly wearing the ball gown she wore for a bit part in a TV pilot that didn’t get picked up, and it’ll be quite the sight; most everyone else will be wearing some form of body glitter, but that’s too far out of Steve’s own comfort zone of black t-shirts, jeans and combat boots, so this jacket is a happy medium. As he looks at himself in the mirror, he actually lets himself think that he looks pretty sharp, all things considered.

Then again, he thought he had looked pretty sharp on his prom night, too. He may not have the best judgment, when it comes to that sort of thing.

He hadn’t let himself think of anything about prom besides Mr. Barnes saving his night for the longest time. The actual hurt of what those kids did to him has always felt like a little too much for him to handle. Even after it happened, he had gone back to school with a certain feeling of nervousness, but had let his happiness over his mystery savior — and the stress from his upcoming AP exams — get him through those last few weeks of senior year. There was a level of repression, sure, but it was how he dealt with it, and he was able to move on.

Now that he’s wearing another formal outfit, going to another “prom”, he thinks about the nervous anticipation he felt before that dance, just how excited he had been for the whole thing. After years of being bullied, after having few friends, and after his heart had been broken a hundred times, the feeling that he was not only being included, but being sought after on the most “important” night of high school had been almost too much for his tiny body to handle. He had felt elated. He spent the week before prom practically vibrating with happiness and excitement. Even if there was a small voice at the back of his mind that remained a little skeptical, he hadn’t thought that something as bad as what did could have happened. He was mostly worried about being ignored by his date and his friends. He never thought they’d be cruel enough that Steve would never make it through the door to the prom in the first place.

Even if he thought the idea of the Alt-Prom was a little silly at first, now he can’t stop thinking about what it would’ve been like to have had this kind of event when he was in high school. Not only would it have been a sign that his identity was more understood and well-accepted, but he would have had a place to belong, an event just for him. Missing the prom wouldn’t have felt so dire if there had been an Alt-Prom that he could attend instead, stress-free and happy, with people who understood him.

Of course, he’s sure that there are teenage pressures involved for those who are teenagers. Some of the kids are taking dates, and there was drama about who would ask who and how they would ask them, and many of them still intend on going to the actual prom at the end of the year.

But Steve still likes the idea of the Alt-Prom, because even if it’s a little dance in the school cafeteria, he’s sure that no one will be egged before, during, or after the event. And that’s enough for Steve.

— —

Steve gets to the school a little after the Alt-Prom begins. Gwen and Mary Jane are already on the dance floor, Mary Jane’s long ball gown tripping Gwen up every few steps. The two of them laugh with each other as they readjust their grip, and it’s an incredibly sweet scene. Miles is deep in conversation with someone Steve hasn’t met before on the side of the dance floor. Other than that, a few people are dancing or sitting around, and Steve makes himself busy by heading to the snack table.

“Hey Steve,” Ms. Carter says. She’s pouring two glasses of root beer into clear plastic cups, and Ms. Martinelli stands besides her.

“Hi Ms. Carter, Ms. Martinelli,” he says.

“I meant to tell you how much I liked the painting you were working on in class on Friday.” She smiles at Steve as she hands Ms. Martinelli one of the cups of root beer. “I really enjoyed the juxtaposition of the colors.” She looks to Ms. Martinelli. “Steve has quite the eye for color.”

“It’s funny because I’m partially color-blind,” he deadpans.

Ms. Martinelli snorts, and Steve likes her.

“You’re color-blind?” asks a voice behind him. Steve turns, and Mr. Barnes is there with a bag of pretzels and a plastic bowl. “I’m on snack duty,” he explains.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I’m red-green color-blind.”

Mr. Barnes frowns. “Okay,” he says. “That’s…” he stops, purses his lips, then he shakes his head a little. “Sorry, spacing out,” he says with a smile.

“Get your head in the game, Mr. B. We’ve got a dance to chaperone,” Ms. Martinelli says.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mr. Barnes says, opening the bag of pretzels and dumping them into the bowl.

As he says that, the door to the cafeteria opens up. Mr. Barnes looks over and stands up straight, the color draining from his face. Steve follows his gaze to the door, where Brock is standing, looking pissed off as his eyes search the room. He locks eyes onto Mr. Barnes after a long second and starts towards him. He’s wearing jeans and a leather jacket and holding a black binder in one of his hands. Steve watches as Mr. Barnes stands very still, bag of pretzels still in his hands, not taking his eyes off of Brock.

“What are you doing here?” he asks as Brock approaches.

“We were supposed to go to this together, weren’t we?” Brock asks, sarcastic. He’s got a low, gruff voice and it makes the hair on the back of Steve’s neck stand.

Steve hears Ms. Carter quietly say to Ms. Martinelli, “I’m getting security” and watches through the corner of his eye as she slips away.

“That was before,” Mr. Barnes says, then he stops, exhales, and shakes his head. “Just get out, okay? This isn’t the time.”

Brock says, “You weren’t picking up your phone, so I decided to stop by.”

“I didn’t ask,” Mr. Barnes says, “but you know how inappropriate this is, don’t you? This is where I work.”

“I have something to show you,” he says, presenting the black binder to Mr. Barnes. But then he looks over Mr. Barnes’ shoulder and at… Steve. He looks at Steve. “This involves you, teacher’s pet.” Steve looks over his shoulder. Ms. Martinelli is still at the end of the table, but there’s no one else there that Brock could be talking to. “Don’t be an idiot, come over,” he says to Steve.

“Don’t drag my students into this,” Mr. Barnes says, low.

“You say student, I say twenty-eight year-old, mediocre journalist.”

Steve feels the blood drain from his face.

“Gotcha,” Brock says, opening up the binder and setting it on the snack table. “Here’s your Twitter bio: ‘Steve Rogers. _Delilah_. NYU grad. Views are my own.’ Your last Tweet was from two days ago, and just says ‘Math’ with a frowny face.” He looks up at Mr. Barnes. “I think you should take that one personally.”

“Stop it,” Mr. Barnes says.

“You’re right, let’s look at some of his better headlines from the past year or so. We’ve got ‘Bella Thorne, Someone Who People Apparently Care About, Walks Out On Ex-Kardashian Husband’ and ‘I Actually Feel Bad For Taylor Swift — Let’s Dissect Why’.”

Steve’s face grows red. A small group has gathered around the table — including Gwen and Mary Jane — and any chance of Steve slipping out without being seen are trashed as Brock continues reading the inane celebrity gossip that Steve has spent the past three years rehashing for the Internet. All of the shame and insecurities he’s felt because of his position come flooding to him all at once, and it’s getting hard to breathe.

“You’ve made your point,” Mr. Barnes says.

“I told you something was off about the kid and you didn’t listen,” Brock says.

“That’s right,” Mr. Barnes says. He hasn’t looked at Steve since the conversation began. Steve’s not sure Mr. Barnes will ever look at him again.

“Now let’s go,” Brock says. “We need to talk about this shit.”

Mr. Barnes shakes his head. “Get outta here, Brock. You’ve made your point, you’re better than the rest of us and we all know it, and now it’s time for you to leave.”

“Listen, if it weren’t for this asshole—“

“Brock,” Mr. Barnes says, but Brock plows through.

“If it weren’t for this asshole, you wouldn’t have walked out on Wednesday night and we’d still be together, right?”

“You were the one who—“

“Is there a problem?” asks Logan, the school security officer. Ms. Carter is close on his heels.

“No—“ Brock says.

“This guy shouldn’t be here,” Mr. Barnes says, gesturing to Brock. “He’s bothering me and blackmailing one of our students.”

“Blackmailing?” Brock asks.

Mr. Barnes shrugs. “Maybe threatening is a better word for it. We should ask an English teacher about the exact definitions.”

Steve looks down at his feet, willing himself not to cry.

“Come with me,” Logan says, grabbing Brock’s arm.

“I’m not—“ Brock starts.

“Or we could get the cops involved,” Logan says.

Brock sighs, looks at Mr. Barnes. “I’m not done with you,” he says.

“Then I’ll see you in court,” Mr. Barnes says, sounding more tired than angry.

Brock snatches his arm from Logan and says, “I’ll see myself out.”

He leaves his binder on the table.

People are openly staring at Steve now, and he feels his throat close up. He doesn’t know what to do, or what to say. For all of his fears of being exposed, he never imagined it would be like this, so out in the open, and while he’s surrounded by just about everyone he likes at the school.

He never thought it would be at the prom, of all places.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you ought to explain to everyone what you’re doing here,” Mr. Barnes tells him with a tired smile.

“I—“

“Wait, you’re Steve Rogers from _Delilah_?” Mary Jane asks from the growing audience.

“Uh, yeah,” Steve says.

“I read all your articles!” she says. “ _Delilah_ is my favorite website!”

There’s an excited murmur from the crowd, and Steve feels Mr. Barnes’ hand slip off of his shoulder as he explains to everyone that, yes, he’s an adult, and yes, he’s a journalist, and no, he’s not going to write anything bad about any of them, he promises. He’s only got good things to say about the school, and about them, and about the teachers. That’s what he’ll be writing about.

— —

He loses track of time, fielding questions from the kids. Most of the students lose interest pretty quickly, once they learn that he’s not any kind of big deal, and that there’s not much of a chance that they’ll be secretly discovered by MTV after appearing in his article, but a few stick around to ask questions about him, about journalism, and about celebrity gossip. By the time that the last student has lost interest in him, both Mr. Barnes and the black binder put together by Brock are nowhere to be found.

Realizing that his cover is blown and that he can’t expect the students here to treat him like Hannah Montana and cover for him indefinitely, he knows he needs to go, but he doesn’t want to do so without talking to Mr. Barnes first. He needs him to know the truth about who Steve is, and who Steve is to him, and whether they can…

He tries not to think about that, actually. Tries really hard. It doesn’t really work.

Steve doesn’t find Mr. Barnes in his classroom, or anywhere near the dance. He goes outside to see if Mr. Barnes’ Prius is in the lot when he sees Mr. Barnes sitting on a bench close to the school, the binder of articles open in his lap. He’s reading them, using a nearby street lamp for light.

“Mr. Barnes?” he asks.

Mr. Barnes looks up. “Is it weird for you to call me that, given…” He gestures down to the binder.

“I’m not sure,” Steve says, coming closer. “I’m glad you’re still here. I wanted to tell you the whole story,” he says.

“Can you wait until I’m done with this article?” Mr. Barnes asks, voice just the slightest bit harsh. “I’m really interested in hearing what it is that Brad did to Angelina.”

“That’s all trash,” Steve says, quiet.

Mr. Barnes looks up. “You’ve made a career out of bullying people you’ve never met,” he says with a frown.

It feels like Steve’s been punched in the gut.

“It’s not like that,” he tries.

“The evidence is to the contrary,” Mr. Barnes says, shaking his head. He sighs, looking back down at the binder, then back up at Steve. “So it was you all along?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I met you on your prom night.” Steve nods, slow. “Okay,” Mr. Barnes says. “Okay,” he repeats, softer.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” Steve says.

“But you thought you had to?” Mr. Barnes asks, eyebrows raised.

“I did,” Steve says. “It was for my career.”

Mr. Barnes shakes his head. “I’ve heard that line before,” he says. “Honestly, I always hoped that we’d meet. I didn’t think it would be like this, though, I don’t think anyone really expects something like this to happen.”

“But we can talk now!” Steve says, trying to smile. “Because, this whole time, I’ve been wanting to tell you everything, and to actually talk to you and know you, and—“

“No,” Mr. Barnes interrupts, shutting the binder, setting it on the bench next to him, and standing up. “Just… no. Listen, I wish you well, and I know you have your reasons for what you did, but that doesn’t make it okay.”

“Please,” Steve says, knowing how desperate he sounds.

“Listen,” Mr. Barnes repeats in a soft, smooth voice that makes Steve’s throat ache. “Ten minutes ago you were my student, and now you’re a stranger. I don’t owe you anything, and I don’t expect anything from you in return. I don’t want anything, either.”

“I want—”

“I need you to leave me alone,” Mr. Barnes says, voice just taking on an edge of sternness. “I don’t have room in my life for any more bullies and liars.”

“I’m not—”

“I wish you all the best, I really do, but I’m going to go now. I suggest that you do, too. You’re not a student here anymore.”

Steve stands there, speechless, watching Mr. Barnes pick up the binder and head to his Prius. He didn’t know what he expected from Mr. Barnes, but it wasn’t that. There was no righteous anger, no demands for truth or justice. He just spoke to Steve in a calm, disappointed voice, and told him that he was done with him. Forever.

Maybe Steve should’ve expected that disappointment. Only teachers and guardians can express that kind of profound disappointment in someone in so little time, and make such a lasting impact.

— —

It feels weird to wake up on Monday morning and not go to school.

— —

He logs into _Delilah_ ’s virtual staff meeting for the first time in two months a little later that morning, realizing just how little he missed them.

There’s the usual bullshit: people complaining about their job, their sources, the freelancers, the pay. There’s not a whole lot of talk about what happened with Steve at the school — though a few people welcome him back — and he’s sure Natasha sent around an email explaining the situation and asking people to back off. He’s grateful for that.

Steve gets all of his usual assignments, plus an invitation to the downtown office in the next few days to talk to Natasha about the school article and his promotion from celebrity gossip to slightly more serious topics, which Steve looks forward to.

But when he logs off and sits in his empty apartment, he wishes he had somewhere to go, something to do besides scour the Internet for articles about Beyoncé’s twins.

Sighing, he opens up an email to Sam.

 _How are things at school?_ He asks, then presses send.

He checks _People’s_ website, then looks back at his email. He’s got two spam messages, and one from Sam, which he opens.

_Principal Fury called a big meeting about it this morning — most faculty and staff were there. I went to breakfast with Angie and Peggy before. Apparently, Angie knew this whole time because she’s a big fan of yours from Delilah and has a few mutual friends on Facebook. She said she saw your Facebook photos from Lollapalooza last year because you went with her friend Dottie. Peggy knew because Angie told her, and she told me to tell you that she still thinks you should go back to school and will help you if you want it._

_We invited Bucky to breakfast, but he declined. He came into the meeting, though, and had some none-too-kind things to say to Principal Fury about how inviting a reporter into the school violates the trust that students and employees have for the institution. He actually got a few people pretty riled up about it who were chill beforehand. So… I would stay away from him for a bit if I were you. He’s a chill guy. This is the most upset I’ve seen him be about something since one of our students died in a drunk driving accident two years ago. That’s saying something._

_Hope you’re doing well on your first day back as a well-adjusted adult. For all your trouble, I’ll miss having you here. Let’s get drinks soon._

_Sam_

 

Steve sighs, looks down at his keyboard, and doesn’t know what to type.

He doesn’t know what he expected — for Mr. Barnes to just be okay with him, an interloper, in his classroom? Of course he wouldn’t be. He’s too good a person for that, cares too much about his students.

Steve closes Outlook without responding to Sam and starts drafting an article about Catherine Zeta-Jones. His heart isn’t in it, but it’s something to do.

— —

He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, that sends him to university websites to look at their MFA programs. It’s March, and he’d have more than enough time to put together a portfolio by the December due date. He’s not sure that he’ll have great references, but maybe if Ms. Carter wasn’t kidding, he can get some help from her…

He shakes his head and clicks out of the window for the Pratt Institute’s MFA in painting. Such a stupid idea. He’s chosen his career path, and there’s not much he can do now.

— —

“Congratulations,” Natasha says, three weeks later. It had taken a while to get everything sorted out, but Steve is officially a _Delilah_ staff writer, as opposed to a pop culture reporter. His first assignment? Writing _something_ about the undercover gig. Second? Writing about a new vegan food craze. How exciting.

“Thanks,” Steve says, not able to bring himself to be more enthusiastic.

“This is what you wanted, right?” Natasha asks, voice level. “It’s a good promotion, and that pay raise isn’t anything to scoff at.” Steve nods, fiddles with the straw in his Shirley Temple. He didn’t feel like getting anything stronger but still wanted something festive. Now he just feels kind of silly. “What’s wrong?” she asks after a long pause and sounding a little put out by having to pry it out of him.

“Everything,” Steve says, then internally scoffs at himself for being so dramatic.

“You’re being dramatic,” she says before taking a sip of her martini.

“I know,” Steve says.

“I’m just making sure that you know that _I_ know. Are you gonna talk about it, or not?”

“I don’t…“ Steve starts, then stops. He looks across the restaurant and locks eyes with Mr. Barnes, halfway through the open door, heading out. Mr. Banner, the chemistry teacher, follows close behind him.

Before Steve can even think of what he would say if he could say something, Mr. Barnes walks out the door.

Steve swallows hard. “I’m going to quit _Delilah_ ,” he says. “I’m going to go back to school.”

He looks at Natasha. She looks at him.

She smiles.

“About time,” she says, raising her martini. “To the future,” she says. Steve picks up his Shirley Temple and they clink glasses.

— —

He waits until his applications are submitted in October to publish the article. When it appears on the _Delilah_ website, he feels a wave of relief. It’s finally there. This is finally done.

— —

**Two Months Back In High School: How Returning to School Changed My Life**

 

> _My name is Steve, and I had a really, really shitty time in high school. Without going into too much detail, I’ll just say that I was scrawny, nerdy, and openly bisexual. I was a target for just about anyone and everyone, and that’s saying something. But no night of high school — and, maybe my life — was worse than my prom night._
> 
> _The most popular guy in school asked me out. I should’ve said no; I knew better than to trust him. But he told me that he’d liked me for ages, and wanted to take me to the prom as an apology for all of the crappy things he and his friends did to me in our four years of school together. I believed him and rented a tuxedo the next day._
> 
> _When I left my house on prom night, he and his friends threw eggs at me from the limo they had rented to go to the prom together, without me._
> 
> _It was humiliating and awful, and I knew I couldn’t afford to replace the tuxedo, and I couldn’t go home and face my mother who, at the time, was losing her battle with breast cancer. Instead, I ran to a nearby park and cried my eyes out. That was when he came along._
> 
> _He was my age, handsome, and walking the fluffiest dog I’d ever seen. He sat down and talked to me, made me laugh, and offered his uncle’s dry cleaners to help with the tuxedo. He was one of the kindest people I had ever met, and I never got his name. I’ve always thought about him, and it was thinking of that night that I walked into Marvel High School in late January, just in time for the start of the second semester with the object of writing about re-experiencing life as a bisexual student in high school, and how things differed between my experience and today._
> 
> _I didn’t expect him to be my math teacher._
> 
> _Mr. X — a fake name, so as to protect the innocent — recognized me right away, and I recognized him. For the longest time, my prom night savior felt like an illusion I had made up, some kind of egg-induced delusion that I created in order to get myself through that night, but there he was in the flesh, teaching a classroom differential equations and making terrible math puns._
> 
> _I should’ve fessed up at that very moment. I should have told him who I was, and why I was there, and asked him to go somewhere and talk. There was so much I wanted to know about him, and I never had the opportunity to ask._
> 
> _Instead, I chose to maintain my cover and go to school as a seventeen year-old. I met students whose lists of accomplishments are miles long, who inspired me, and who fight for their rights, and the rights of their fellow students every day. These impressive students — who know who they are — invited me to their lunch table, and gave me their friendship without reservation. For that, I am eternally grateful. And under the leadership of Mr. X, these students carved out a space in their high school that heralded inclusivity, kindness, and justice. Their club, their tenacity, and above all, their kindness, astounded me, and continues to do so. In twenty years, we’ll be voting these kids into office and I, for one, cannot wait to do so._
> 
> _But while doing this research, I also realized that I had wrecked, perhaps forever, my chances of getting to know Mr. X, who showed me nothing but kindness while I was in his class, the same kind of kindness he showed every student who walked through his door._
> 
> _Would all of the good things going on in that school be possible without Mr. X? Probably. But the fact remains that having such a positive role model in a high school for LGBT youth is important. Mr. X showed pictures of himself and his boyfriend on my first day of class, and was open about his sexuality. He proved himself a capable club leader, is well-respected among faculty and students alike, and provides a level of empathetic caring that lacked when I was in school. Students adore him, and he adores his students._
> 
> _This proves important not only to students who consider themselves part of the queer community, but also to those who don’t. Mr. X stands strong against bullying of any kind, and provides a human, adult face to name-calling and egg-throwing. While there were still bullies and bad seeds at Marvel High School, they were dealt with more seriously by staff members, with victims of bullying cared for, and bullies themselves punished. However, Mr. X also took bullies aside to talk to them about their prejudices, and why they acted the way they did. I was told that more than one bully broke down and confided in Mr. X about themselves, and made their way towards being a better person and citizen because they were able to connect with him. It was incredible to see._
> 
> _This whole article may seem like a love letter, and in a way, it is. I’ve loved Mr. X since he saved me on my prom night. For years, I’ve loved the idea of him — my own Prince Charming on dogback (if that’s a word) who would rescue me from the bullies and troubles I faced. Over time, the particulars of who he was faded into this idea, which is why it was such a stark contrast to actually meet him, talk to him, and be taught by him. It was also a surprise when I realized that I was falling in love with Mr. X, not Prince Charming._
> 
> _I don’t expect Mr. X to ever reciprocate, nor do I mean to put him in an uncomfortable position. I’m just trying to be honest here._
> 
> _And that leads me to my final point, one that Mr. X brought up to me the last time we spoke, after he had found out that I was not Steven Grant, a seventeen year-old high schooler, but Steve Rogers, a twenty-eight year-old reporter:_
> 
> _I’ve been complicit in bullying of my own._
> 
> _I have loved working at Delilah the past few years, and I take a lot of pride in my career and where I’ve gone. But looking back at the work I’ve done, a lot of it has been cruel. I’ve made fun of people and situations that I’ve never met or been a part of; I’ve supported an industry that I despise for clicks and laughs. Even if the work is tongue-in-cheek, even if it’s supported me for several years, it is still, at its core, a form of bullying. As someone who has been hurt by bullies, and has felt the ramifications of bullying for a lifetime, I know that I need to stop._
> 
> _That’s why this article will also be my last for Delilah._
> 
> _Resigning from a publication that I’ve read for years and have enjoyed working at is difficult, but I know in my heart that it’s the right thing to do. I have some plans going forward, but there is still a lot up in the air. I’m nervous and excited for what will happen next. All I hope is that I can start to make the world a better place, one step at a time. Or, at least, stop myself from being more harmful than I already have been._
> 
> _But for now, I do have one plan set in stone. I plan to go to the Brooklyn park where I first met Mr. X this Friday night. I’ll stay there from 5 - 10 pm. There’s someone I want to apologize to, and who I would like to ask to start over with._
> 
> _I’m asking for a second chance at life. I hope this can be the first step._

— —

Most of the comments are negative and critical, but Steve doesn’t care. He just watches the hits roll in with the hopes that one of them comes from Bucky Barnes’ computer.

— —

He doesn’t expect much when he gets to the park. It’s not like he’s heard from Mr. Barnes, and even Sam says that he doesn’t think Mr. Barnes saw the article. Apparently, Mr. Barnes and Principal Fury still fight about it, and things have even gotten a bit chillier between Mr. Barnes and Sam since the whole incident occurred. Steve blames himself for that. Sam, however, is looking at a move, though. He’s finished up his master’s program and has been applying for principal jobs. Fact is, he won’t be at Marvel High School for much longer. Calls for interviews have been piling in.

So Steve is almost certain that Mr. Barnes won’t come to the playground. That’s fine, that’s chill. If he doesn’t, then at least Steve will know that Mr. Barnes doesn’t want to see him. At least he’ll be certain about it, finally. And that’s been the real problem this whole time, the uncertainty. When Mr. Barnes doesn’t show up, Steve will be able to forget about him, and move on with the rest of his life.

Probably. Hopefully.

He sighs, and takes a seat on a swing.

It’s a breezy October night, and it’s already getting dark out. The fall always bums Steve out a bit. He’s not a summer person — the heat is hard on his lungs, the pollen is hard on his sinuses, and the sun is hard on his skin — but he doesn’t like the feeling of the days getting shorter. There’s something so final about it. But the park itself is nice. They redid it a few years ago, and the jungle gym and swing set are made from brightly-colored metal and plastic instead of wood, and the ground is cushy on Steve’s feet, apparently made from recycled tires and gym shoes. Back in his day, the place was a little scarier, and he remembers running home crying as a kid because his splinters from the jungle gym got so bad he was bleeding.

The park itself is pretty empty. It’s that odd time of night when kids are leaving and people are having dinner. There was a kid with her dad going down the slide when Steve got there, but after just a few minutes she started dragging her dad away, talking about the kreplach they’re going to have for dinner. It’s cute, and it makes Steve wish that he had someone to go home to.

He should probably get a hamster, or something, since he’s not sure that he’s ever going to find someone to go home to.

And then he hears a bark.

He looks up to see a large, white, fluffy monster hurtling towards him. “Winter!” Steve hears someone call  as forty pounds of Samoyed lands on him. He grunts.

“Hi,” he says to Winter once he regains his balance. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you here,” he says giving her a pat on the neck. She barks again, her wagging hard.

A few moments later Mr. Barnes approaches, shaking his head. “After all this time, she still doesn’t wanna stay on the lede when she sees someone she knows.”

“You think she still knows me?” Steve asks, heart beating fast in his chest.

Mr. Barnes shrugs. “I don’t think people give dogs enough credit.”

They’re both quiet for a moment as Steve pets Winter’s head.

“So,” Mr. Barnes says. He clears his throat.

“Thanks for coming,” Steve says.

“I almost didn’t,” Mr. Barnes admits. “If Winter hadn’t grabbed her lede, I maybe wouldn’t’ve.”

“I’m glad she’s looking out for me,” Steve says. He looks down at her. “You’re a very good girl,” he tells her very seriously.

Mr. Barnes chuckles. “That she is.” He pauses. “I wanted to thank you for the things you wrote about me in your article. They were incredibly kind, and I appreciate it.”

“I don’t think they’re necessarily kind if they’re true.”

Mr. Barnes rolls his eyes. “Take the compliment,” he says.

“Technically, I think you’re the one who needs to take the compliment,” Steve replies.

“Fine,” he says. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Steve pauses. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice quiet.

“For what?” Mr. Barnes asks, sounding more skeptical than confused. This is a test, and Steve knows it.

“For lying to you, for starters,” Steve says. Something in Mr. Barnes’ posture loosens. “I’m sorry that I lied to you and to everyone else at school, and that I hurt people. I didn’t have any idea that what I’d do would hurt people.” He adds, “Would hurt you.” He looks up at Mr. Barnes, who just nods, listening carefully, voice neutral. Winter moves off of Steve and sits at Mr. Barnes’ feet, tongue lolling, looking at up at him. “I honestly didn’t know what to do the first time I saw you. I should’ve just told you from the start. I’m sorry for that, too.”

“I get that it was your job,” Mr. Barnes says.

“But that’s not much of an excuse,” Steve says. “You made me see that.”

“I was harsh,” Mr. Barnes says.

“Rightfully so,” Steve says. “When you’re so engrossed in what you’re doing, sometimes it can be hard to pull back and think of things from an outside perspective. That’s what I was doing at _Delilah_ . After working for so long to try to write for _Delilah_ , I lost my integrity somewhere along the way. I don’t regret working there. I like the people and I like the publication itself. But that wasn’t a role I should have been in. It’s a role that I should’ve been fighting for them to remove. But it was my job, and I didn’t think much past that. Everything felt very disconnected. I didn’t think about who I could be hurting, and the example I set for others.”

“Alright,” Mr. Barnes says.

“I want to make things right. With you, especially.”

Mr. Barnes looks down at Winter for a moment, then back up. “Steve,” he says. “I’m just not sure that I can give you what you want.”

“I just want to get to know you,” Steve says. “Nothing more than that, if you’ll let me.”

Mr. Barnes exhales. “That’s hard,” he says.

Steve feels himself shrink a little, looks down at his hands. “I understand,” he says.

“Please look at me,” Mr. Barnes says, and Steve forces himself to look back up. “You were my student, and that makes this difficult and uncomfortable for me,” he says. “There are categories in my life, and students are special. I care for them, but I also don’t get involved personally, emotionally. That’s a dangerous road to take, because when you bring too much of your work home with you at the end of the day, it can be bad for both you and for your students. There are also all sorts of ethical things to take into consideration. It’s just… I don’t know that I can think of you outside of that kind of category anymore. It’s tough for me. It was a hard lesson for me to learn in the first place and I don’t want to undo that work.”

“Of course,” Steve says.

“And I don’t know that I trust you. I don’t know that I could ever trust you after that.” Hearing that stings, but Steve nods. “You lied. You lied to me, you lied to a bunch of kids who also trusted you, and you didn’t see how much of a problem that was until someone pointed it out to you.”

“I did.”

“But I also… You’re not the only one who thought about that night, okay? I’ve wanted to know you, too. I always have. I looked for you, and thought about you, and I wanted so badly to know you after that night.” Steve tries not to get his hopes up, but his treacherous heart quickens. “So I just… We can start small, okay? And I can’t promise you anything at all, but we can start small. Here. Now.”

Steve looks up. “Really?” he asks in a small, awed voice.

Mr. Barnes nods. “We can take Winter for a walk,” he says. “We can start with that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” Steve says, then immediately flushes at his own mistake.

“Bucky,” Mr. Barnes says.

Steve smiles. “Bucky,” he says.

Bucky nods. “It’s nice to meet you, Steve.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

— —

At the end of their walk, Bucky asks him if he’d like to go on another, the next night.

It happens again and again, until it’s just part of their routine. They meet for a walk, talk about their day, and their lives, and what’s going on around the world. And one day, Bucky leaning in to give Steve a kiss goodnight is just natural and becomes part of their routine, too.

 

**_Three Years Later_ **

 

Steve is two drinks in when Bucky approaches him. “That painting is crooked,” he says, gesturing to the piece Steve is standing in front of. People mill about the crowded room, eating h’ors derves and sipping glasses of cheap white wine. This is Steve’s first real show outside of school, in a space in Chelsea owned by someone who saw Steve’s work after his graduation from the Pratt MFA program. It had been a tough few weeks leading up to Steve’s debut, but it’s all come together, and Steve couldn’t be happier.

Bucky, on the other hand, seems persnickety.

“It’s purposefully crooked and it’s a metaphor for the neoliberal world order,” Steve says, rolling his eyes.

“Or you should’ve asked me to come over here last night to help you with the hanging,” Bucky responds, eyebrows raised.

“You were grading exams!” Steve says. “Exams that you were already behind on!”

Bucky laughs. “You’re all riled up tonight,” he says, putting an arm around Steve’s waist and pulling him in close.

“I’ve had two glasses of wine,” Steve explains. “I know it’s not tequila, but I’m a small guy.”

“Well then,” Bucky says, eyebrows raised.

“Is it really crooked?” Steve asks, looking at the piece, squinting at it, and moving his head a little to one side to try to figure it out.

Bucky nods. “I can get my ruler,” he says, very serious. “It’s in the car.”

Steve looks up at him. “Why do you have a ruler in the Prius?” he asks.

“I’m a math teacher, Steve. Someone may have a polygon they need to find the area of, and I need to be prepared for that.”

“I’m just surprised that you don’t keep a ruler in our bed,” Steve says.

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Who says I don’t?” He leans over and whispers, “Is that a ruler in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” in Steve’s ear.

Steve grins as he elbows Bucky’s side and Bucky laughs before pressing a kiss to the top of Steve’s head. Steve looks up at Bucky and just grins at his partner. Bucky smiles back.

It had taken a long time to build trust between the two of them, and a lot of work. Both had been unsure about starting a relationship, but once they did, it’s just been right. Steve never knew that being in a relationship could make him feel whole like this, but being with Bucky is easy, it’s fun, it’s challenging, and above all, it’s good.

He loves Bucky. He doesn’t love the guy from prom night. He doesn’t love Mr. Barnes. He loves Bucky, and Bucky loves him, too.

“Hey,” Bucky says, looking down at Steve. “I’m really proud of you. You know that, right?”

“Thanks,” Steve says, glancing down.

“Look at this, they’re all here for you.”

“All here for the canapés, more like.”

Bucky chuckles. “They’re good canapés,” he says.

Steve sort of leans into Bucky’s side. “Thanks for being here,” he says. “For all of this, I… I dunno if you know how much you changed things for me, but it’s been better since I met you.”

“Me too,” Bucky says, leaning down and giving Steve a long, lingering kiss on the lips.

It’s not their first kiss, and it’s not their last. But every time Bucky Barnes gives him a kiss, Steve feels like it’s a new beginning.

— —

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider sharing this fic by [reblogging the art](http://whtaft.tumblr.com/post/163868151674/sometimes-i-get-so-excited-about-imaginary) on Tumblr, or following me at [whtaft](www.whtaft.tumblr.com).
> 
> Additional warnings (contains spoilers): Two characters experience discriminatory acts based on their sexuality. The first has eggs thrown at him on his prom night. The second is beaten up and verbally abused by football teammates, which is not shown but discussed in an article about the event. Characters eat food and drink alcohol. One character believes a character is drinking while underage (though he is not actually underage).


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